


Fulcrum

by findinghero



Series: Horoshee Malchek [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findinghero/pseuds/findinghero
Summary: Sequel to Horoshee Malchek. Tim finds out who’s been following him, and it’s not quite who he expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: T for language and depictions of violence. Disclaimer: Not mine and no money made here.
> 
> Posted with Thanks to Leiru!

The whistle of the bullet whizzing right by his head is what finally forces Tim back behind the telephone pole. Not that there’s really much space behind the pole to protect Tim from the gunfire coming at him from two different trajectories, but at least the thick wood can help shelter him from the worst head and body shots. That is, until their suspects pivot again, widening their angles and making the small space behind this lone telephone pole about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane.

 

Wood splintering all around him, Tim squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, struggling to force himself to refocus and figure out how to get a shot off without getting some part of _him_ shot off. He knows his team has to have heard the gunfire. He knows they’re on the way, but he doesn’t know if they can make it to him in time. It’s only by chance that he’s on the opposite side of this section of warehouses from the rest of them. The fact is, that the odd receiver array Tim had initially spied in the casefile pictures from Metro likely didn’t have anyone guarding it on a regular day. Though the array would be expensive to replace, it’d be significantly more expensive to guard. There’s no reason for these men to be here today aside from Tim’s bad luck or maybe, Tim can’t help but reconsider, his heritage.

 

A shard of wood splinters off the pole and into the back of his neck, Tim barely feels the sting except as a signal that he’s running out of time. He’s almost desperate enough to drop and roll for the gutter to try to get a semblance of a shot off at the assailants, maybe even take one of them out with him, when the squeal of tires and the honk of a carhorn give rise to hope in his chest. Tim doesn’t even need to turn to see the car coming—the driver literally parks the tire against the pole. In seconds, a tank of a man with a shock of black hair emerges from the back seat, a bulletproof vest across his broad shoulders. He grabs hold of Tim, yanking him down and tucking Tim into his immense chest, not giving Tim any other choice but to move with him. As they’re running for the still open rear door like that, Tim remembers being in this exact position before—in Leningrad where first Taras and then Liev fell beside him before Andrei yanked him into the bowels of the terrifyingly deep and dark subway system and the Muscovites lost them in the tunnels. Then Andrei died, too, three days later from the wound he got in his back as he shielded Toli with his body.

 

Tim lets himself move with his huge rescuer, knowing from experience that it’s safer for them both if he lets his bodyguard guide their movements and only contributes to their forward motion rather than their direction. In seconds they’re both in the back of the sedan, Tim’s facedown in the floor with the hulk of a man covering his back, yet placing no weight to speak of on him.

 

The sweet, familiar grumble of the V12 engine soothes Tim as the sedan backs up and then speeds forward. He calms further as he feels the competence of the driver—the quick economy of his motions in the front seat and the smooth rocking that the reinforced shocks barely allows. It reminds Toli of safety, of Papa and home.

 

“My team,” Tim hollers, a demand and question, both, as the shock of gunfire becomes more distant.

 

Tim hears movement from the right side of the front seat. As a child, Tim called whoever rode in the front passenger seat the _Bullet Man_ because it was usually their job to locate and return fire. It was years before he understood that riding shotgun in modern times usually had nothing to do with weapons handling.

 

“Your team is safer than you are right now,” the _Bullet Man’s_ light Muscovian accent makes Tim tighten his grip on his still unholstered gun.

 

Tim’s jaw locks, his mind shifting rapidly through possible scenarios of how fast he can shoot through them and whether he can jump out of the car with the hulk of the man still at his back and the vehicle moving at several tens of miles an hour. The only thing that keeps Tim aiming his weapon to the floor is the knowledge that these men must realize he still has his gun. _Would they have really let me keep my sig if they were Muscovites?_ The very idea that a Moscow-born man wouldn’t immediately disarm him is ludicrous, yet the _Bullet Man’s_ pronunciation is unmistakable.

 

The man at his back shifts behind Tim, noting his tension, as well as seeming to understand the cause for his stiffness right away. _“Do not worry,”_ his new bodyguard speaks roughly above him, tones of Petersburg liberally splashed throughout his Russian speech. _“This swine,”_ the bodyguard taps the front passenger seat, _“is loyal only to the Markov House despite his upbringing in that filthy city,”_ the words are relaxed, teasing the Muscovite that—unbelievably—just helped to save Tim’s life.

 

Still, Tim remains tense, “Let me call my team. Warn them,” he clarifies, trying not to give away that he understood the Russian reassurances—not yet.

 

There is silence in the car, all three of the men who just rescued Tim seem to be waiting until the _Bullet Man—_ the _Muscovite!—_ says, _“He needs to make a phone call.”_ The accent is actually more frightening to hear in Russian than in English, but immediately after the words are spoken, the bodyguard at Tim’s back offers a few more inches between them, allowing Tim to reach into his pocket with his right hand and get to his phone, though he doesn’t yet let Tim up from the floor.

 

Tim keeps a careful grip on his gun and calls Boss, not knowing what the hell to say, but at least needing to tell them about the shooters that ambushed him.

 

“Are you safe?” Boss demands in lieu of hello. Tim listens as closely as he can, but there’s no gunfire in the background of the call.

 

Tim responds, “Sort of,” immediately, though he’s not sure whether that’s remotely true. “The team?” Tim prods without giving names, not wanting to give the men in the car with him a start on their list if they’re actually Muscovites. On the off chance that they don’t already know who his team is, that is.

 

Gibbs’ hesitation is so brief as to be almost unrecognizable. “We’re fine. We heard gunfire. We called Metro and are driving towards your position.” There’s a bare pause before Gibbs continues, “But you’re not there anymore, are you?”

 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t answer directly, “There were two shooters at the array. Had a couple 9 mils and a .38,” Tim details. “I couldn’t get a bead on them. They had me pinned.”

 

Again there’s that extra instant of silence before Gibbs demands, “Where are you right now?”

 

Tim swallows, “Headed west,” he judges by the way the sun is reddening through the window above him. “In a car with three Russian-speakers that I don’t know,” he concludes, trying not to let his unease come through, trying not to allow the sick feeling in his gut to escalate beyond mere uneasiness.

 

A squeal of tires on the other end of the line confirms that Boss is coming for him. “Ziva,” Boss demands, “Tell Metro they’re on their own with the shooters. We’re headed for McGee.”

 

“Boss, are you sure you want to talk on the phone while you’re driving like this?” Tim hears Tony’s tinny voice through the receiver. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your driving!” Tim wonders morbidly if it’s the last time he’ll hear his partner’s voice, even though he _knows_ that if these men were really a part of the Moscow-based syndicate and not a part of his father’s, then he never would have been treated so respectfully, never would have been allowed to keep his sig, let alone make a phone call inviting rescue. Unless, of course, they were exceedingly clever and overconfident Muscovites, and the truth is, Tim had never met anything but.

 

Boss ignores Tony, “Can they hear me?”

 

Tim considers the man above him, how his breathing seems to have gotten closer in the last minute, “Unknown,” Tim declares, but means, ‘probably.’

 

“Do you have anything else you need to tell me?” Boss asks, carefully neutral.

 

Three days ago, the day after Tim had first come to Boss about being followed, Boss demanded that they agree on a code system, so Tim could convey information in otherwise compelling circumstances. Invoking Kate’s name or history in any way would tell Boss he was in danger. Talking about fireworks or the Fourth of July would let Gibbs know Tim was free. Referring to the dog bite he’d gotten on the job years ago would let Boss know Tim had to run.

 

“I’m in the backseat in the floor of a modified dark sedan. It’s at least a V12,” he clarifies, “bullet proof glass and reinforced steel. There are two Caucasian men, late-thirties, early-forties, in the front, and there is a Caucasian man, maybe thirty, dark hair, in the back above me. At least two of the men are definitely Russian speakers.” Tim hears a slight echo as he finishes, letting him know that at some point, Boss’ phone got switched to speaker.

 

“The license plate is Virginia XKF-6302,” the Muscovite adds from the front seat, “and we will take the wayward son to the Navy Yard,” he pauses, and there’s a humored undertone when he continues, “Door-to-door service.”

 

_Wayward son,_ Tim’s heart nearly stops, as the words repeat on a loop in his head. “Boss?” Tim asks a moment later, wondering if he heard, if he realized.

 

“Virginia XKF-6302,” is all Boss acknowledges. “Ziva, look it up. Tell me if it matches Tim’s description.” All sound goes out from the other side of the line, and Tim hopes it’s because Boss had Ziva put the phone on mute so Tony can call Abby on his own cell to try to get a lock on Tim’s phone.

 

Tim adjusts the phone to scratch at a slight itch on his arm as he waits for any information to come back, even as he knows that if it’s bad news, his team can’t share, and moreover, that whatever his team finds likely won’t fit into _good_ or _bad_ categories until the whole thing is over anyway.

 

Tim exhales slowly and scratches his arm once more. Idly, he glances over to the itchy right bicep, honing in on the distraction. He blinks at the bright red stain he finds on the green sleeve of his light jacket. _Did I get shot?_ he wonders for half a second before he looks at the behemoth above him.

 

“Oh, no!” Tim mutters under his breath as he drops his phone. “Hey, get off me! Get off me!” he yells at his protector.

 

“McGee! McGee!” Ziva’s yell is but a bare, boxed sound as Tim’s ears roar, and he tries as gently as he can to get the man at his back to flip around and lie down on the seat beside him.

 

“ _What’s wrong_?” the driver speaks for the first time.

“ _He’s hit_!” Tim answers immediately and holsters his weapon without really thinking about it. “ _If you can’t flip over, then just move to the seat, so I can look at it_!” Tim demands of the man above him.

 

“ _Yurok Pavelovich_?” the Muscovite turns his attention to the backseat even as Tim can hear him double checking the magazine of his weapon. _Bullet Men_ are always prepared to shoot. “ _How bad is it?_ ”

 

“ _I’ve had worse_ ,” the newly identified Yurok, son of Pavel, insists, but his breathing is labored and his weight is suddenly heavy across Tim’s legs, and more than that, Andrei had repeatedly used the same phrase 26 years ago in the twisted tunnels below Leningrad to keep Toli’s mind on running and away from comprehending the fact that the bodyguard he’d had his whole life was dying.

 

Toli locks his jaw. There’s no reason for this to happen again. “ _You can’t protect me if you’re dead! Now stop bleeding on me, and get on the seat you fucking *govnosos!_ ”

 

Yurok Pavelovich complies at once with the order, shifting over rather than rolling onto the seat. Tim shoots out of the floor, staying on his knees as he tries to find and assess the wound. It becomes immediately apparent that there’s even more blood than Tim initially thought, the back of Yurok’s bulletproof vest is slick with it. It’s coming from somewhere on Yurok’s right side just beneath his arm where the vest can’t cover, but Tim can’t even see where to apply pressure. Tim makes quick work of the Velcro holding the vest together and then yanks up Yurok’s shirt in one go, hoping it might hurt less that way.

 

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” he winces down at Yurok and slips his own jacket from his arms as the wound in his bodyguard’s flank becomes apparent, “ _but this is going to hurt_.” He doesn’t give any more warning, just puts as much pressure as he can on the wound, hoping his jacket is clean enough so not to introduce any infection into Yurok’s bloodstream, knowing, after huddling in the floor, that his hands are not.

 

Yurok’s resulting screams of pain aren’t enough to make Tim ease the pressure. Instead, Tim grimaces feeling his lips downturn even farther while he feels the anger rise up his spine at his own uselessness. “ _We need to get him to a hospital, now_ ,” Tim yells behind his shoulder to the driver.

 

Peripherally, Tim spies the driver erratically shaking his head. “ _I can’t_ ,” the man whispers. “ _Pakhan would never per—_ ”

 

“ _Pyotor Pavelovich_ ,” the Muscovite interrupts the driver, and at that brief hint, matching patronymics to go with their matching black hair, Tim realizes that his bodyguard and the driver must be brothers. “ _You have been given an order, and you will follow it_.”

 

Tim glances back at the driver, at Pyotor Pavelovich, and while he can’t tell anything by the set of the man’s shoulders, the Muscovite must see something Tim doesn’t, because he nods at Pyotor slowly. “ _Yurok has done his duty, today,_ ” the Muscovite declares. “ _Pakhan would request no further sacrifice._ ”

 

The nearest hospital is GW. Tim can’t check his watch to see how long it takes for them to get there, but Yurok is still breathing—still conscious even by the time they get there. Pyotor lays in on the horn, jerking the car in park even as he’s opening the door to get to his brother. Meanwhile, the Muscovite has gone inside the ER. He comes out a moment later pushing both a large male nurse and a gurney in front of him. It takes all four of them to load Yurok to the bed, but he’s inside the building within less than a minute. A throng of doctors and nurses quickly descend upon him, assessing the gunshot wound and taking him past the waiting room to work on him.

 

Pyotor tries to go back with his brother, but he’s stopped at the door by a too-young, wild-eyed security guard who’s a little tighter in the shoulders than he should be for such a common and understandable mistake. A moment later, Tim spies the security guard nervously glance at Pyotor’s belt and presumably, his weapon. Then, without a word of inquiry, the guard pulls his gun.

 

“Hold on a second!” Tim keeps his voice as even as possible, given there’s a gun shakily pointed at him and Pyotor. “I’m a federal agent,” and those words are just as magical as they were the first day Tim spoke them because the security guard’s aim, immediately points upward by a few degrees, and his frightened eyes become hopeful. “I’m going to reach my hand into my pocket, and pull out my badge, alright?”

 

But Pyotor must not understand English at all, because he angles himself more in front of Tim like Tim’s the President or his Prince or something equally as impossible. The movement makes the security guard twitch.

 

“Pyotor, it’s okay,” Tim’s particular to reduce the first vowel sound, Americanizing his accent as best he can. He lays his opposite hand atop Pyotor’s shoulder, trying to direct him out of the line of fire as well as to allow the security guard a better view of the hand Tim’s reaching into his pocket, but Pyotor won’t budge. “He’s just trying to do his job,” Tim tries to soothe Pyotor with his tone and the guard with his conciliatory words.

 

The gun goes right into Tim’s face, the guard probably only just having seen Tim’s own weapon, “I don’t think you’d better do that, sir!” The security guard barely yells the words before quick hands dart from beside him, disarming him and disabling his gun in two quick motions. Tim’s never even seen such a move outside of the _Bourne Identity_ , not even when they traveled to Mossad headquarters with Ziva.

 

“ _You thick headed fool_ ,” the Muscovite spits his first insult in Russian while the security guard cradles his arm where he sits on the floor of the waiting room. “A monkey with encephalitic syphilis would have a better handle on his weapon than you!” he concludes in English.

 

Tim takes a moment before more security guards or the police show up to pull his ID from his pocket. He squats down in front of the security guard and lets the kid take a long look. “Agent McGee, NCIS,” Tim introduces himself. “You have no idea how lucky you are that you didn’t kill me just now.” Tim shakes his head, almost smiling, though the expression feels bitter, ironic, on his lips. He watches the young guard flush before standing up and backing away, pausing for a brief moment before taking the radio at his shirt collar to radio his superior.

 

In another second, Tim’s standing back up with Pyotor and the Muscovite. Tim takes a moment to study them both. Pyotor is dark-haired and blue eyed like his brother, smaller in stature, but with a sharper chin and a crooked nose, like he’s seen more fights than his baby brother. The Muscovite, by contrast is fair-haired, though not quite a true blond, and the twisted smile on his face can’t hide the underlying symmetry of his features. The dark brown, maybe even black, coloring to his irises seems an odd contrast to his light hair. Tim wonders if it’s a common eye color in Moscow.

 

“ _Give me your gun_ ,” the Muscovite demands of Pyotor in their native tongue. When Pyotor looks back at him in confusion, the Muscovite continues, “ _They have rules about hospitals. They do not care about the permit you have to carry it. They will not let you keep it._ ”

 

Pyotor purses his lips, and looks to Tim.

 

“ _They will not take the boy’s gun. Do not forget, he is a policeman_. _Besides_ ,” the black-eyed man’s smirk gets deeper, “ _he’s a better shot than you, anyway, Pyotor._ ”

 

Pyotor nearly smiles at that and hands over his gun to the Muscovite. Even with everything that’s happened so far, that one act of trust is perhaps the most unbelievable thing that’s occurred since Yurok rescued him from behind the telephone pole.

 

“I’m going to go park the car,” the Muscovite switches back to English to tell Tim. “You will translate for him?” the black-eyed man asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already outside by the time Tim catches back up to him.

 

“Translate?” the bottom goes out from Tim’s stomach as he repeats the word. “I-I can’t,” Tim shakes his head. He loves the way Russian feels in his mouth, the words always feeling closer to the tip of his tongue than English ever could, but simply speaking the language gives too much of Tim away: His accent is as purely Petersburg as if he were born there. “I’ve never even studied Russian.” He knows he should clarify his words, to say that he has no way of explaining to others how he knows the language, but the other man apparently doesn’t need these facts explained to him.

 

“You must have bought Rosetta Stone, eh?” the Muscovite shifts the guns to some pocket in his jacket, although how he can wear leather in the heat of June is beyond Tim.

 

“No,” Tim shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I couldn’t just—”

 

The Muscovite lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder and brings his mouth close to Tim’s ear, so close that the security cameras probably can’t tell when he moves his lips, “You were speaking Russian in the car, Anatoli Nikolaievich.” The Muscovite moves far enough away to look Tim in the eye as Tim’s guts begin to churn even harder to hear his real name spoken aloud. “The phone line was open when you spoke. Your friends would have heard you,” he explains with kindness. “You bought the Rosetta Stone software and joined a group of Russian speakers who meet for Turkish coffee in the cafe across the street from the Orthodox Church that’s on your morning jogging route. They invited you to join them when they heard you conjugating Russian verbs as you jogged. They wanted to teach you to speak properly. You meet them on Tuesdays at 6 am. That’s why you’ve been later to work three of the last five Tuesday mornings,” the Muscovite concludes. “Okay?” he waits for the nod that signals Tim’s compliance.

 

Swallowing hard, Tim tries to remember the last few Tuesdays. He doesn’t doubt that he was tardier than usual to work, even without remembering precisely about those occasions, but he finds it unsettling that this Muscovite knows so much about him.

 

The black-eyed man drops his arm from Tim’s shoulder, pivoting as he prepares to go.

 

“Wait!” Tim says too loudly in the still slight space between them. “What’s your name?”

 

The Muscovite narrows his eyes at Tim, “My name stays in the _Bratva_ , only.” Tim lifts his chin, for a moment, hearing only the potential and _profound_ insult inherent to the Muscovite’s words—as if _Toli_ no longer belongs to the _Brotherhood_ —but then the other man places his hand back on Tim’s shoulder. The black-eyed man blinks, showing weakness for the first time. “ _My name is Alexander_ ,” he begins to Tim in Russian, faltering for but a moment before starting anew, “ _I am Alexander Nikolaievich.”_ The man licks his lips, and the hand at Tim’s shoulder spasms in what feels like an involuntary movement, “ _I hope you will call me Sasha, little brother_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tim barely has time to make it back to Pyotor, let alone to really let Sasha’s words sink in, before his team slams through the emergency room doors, that is, if a person _could_ slam through an automatic sliding door. Although if anyone could, Tim supposes that distinction would go to his team. The relief on each of their faces is acute, though for Gibbs, it’s something even more than relief, something closer to absolution, maybe. Tim doesn’t know.

 

“Who gets kidnapped by _Russians_ in the middle of a _crimescene_? What is this, a Bond movie?” Tony lays into him the second he spies him standing by Pyotor in the waiting room. “I don’t think so, Probie!” Tony emphasizes his statement with a gentle cuff to the back of Tim’s head. On the way back down to his side, Tony’s hand yanks up the short sleeve of Tim’s shirt and skims the unmarked skin beneath. It’s only then that Tim realizes the fabric must be stained with Yurok’s blood.

 

Pyotor stiffens beside him, twitches at Tony’s handsiness. He doesn’t move between Tim and his team, though Tim can tell he wants to. Tim lays his palm on Pyotor’s bicep, immediately pulling the driver’s eyes up to his. Tim offers Pyotor a bare nod of approval, but can’t give him anything else right now, not while there are cameras on them from three angles. But Pyotor subtly nods back, places his hands at his sides and moves three feet away from Tim, offering him a semblance of privacy while remaining close enough to catch a bullet for his Pakhan’s son. It’s not right for his father’s men, for Pyotor, to put Tim’s life so far above his own life, and even his own brother’s life, but for Tim to dare suggest otherwise would be a tremendous insult, both to Yurok, who may yet make the ultimate sacrifice to save Tim today, and to Pyotor, who would have let him.

 

“This is Pyotor,” Tim holds his hand out behind him, knowing Pyotor probably isn’t acknowledging the introduction. “And he didn’t kidnap me. His brother Yurok was shot while protecting me.”

 

“Oh!” Tony exhales fast, all the steam of his fear suddenly redirected into gratitude and probably guilt, while Ziva’s chin tilts and she squints her eyes at Pyotor, not yet willing to take his potential sacrifice at face value. Boss just pushes in front of both Tim’s partners to stand directly before Tim. He twists his head to look around Tim, past him to Pyotor. When he brings his eyes back to Tim, he also pulls his hand up to rest at the base of Tim’s neck, at the join to the shoulder, as if they could somehow have a private conversation in the middle of a busy ER with a (probably) friendly Russian and the rest of his team looking on.

 

“What happened?” Boss demands, his face not quite as close to McGee’s as Sasha’s had been four minutes before, but still close enough to force Tim’s eyes onto his.

 

Tim blinks down before he remembers that he’s telling Gibbs everything now. At least he thinks he is. Tim locks eyes with Boss. “It’s like I said, I was pinned, had nowhere to go. They were flanking me when Pyotor drove right up onto the sidewalk. His brother came out of the car, and pulled me into the backseat. Yurok got shot while he was shielding me, so we came here.”

 

Gibbs holds Tim’s gaze another moment, tries to see if he’s holding back. When he’s satisfied that Tim’s said at least all he can, Boss glances around the ER. “Where’s the third man?” the question is almost casual, but Boss hasn’t truly dropped his guard since Tim had unexpectedly stopped by his house four days before and told Gibbs the biggest secret he’d ever had. In retrospect, Tim realizes, Gibbs probably lit into Tony the second Boss realized DiNozzo had left Tim alone on the far side of the warehouses a half an hour ago. Tim had just been so sure the array would be a minor blip to rule out. He hadn’t thought anyone would be likely to follow him to a random crimescene that he rode to in a random NCIS vehicle with no forewarning whatever.

 

Tim licks his lips, still not quite ready to answer Gibbs. “He’s parking the car,” Tim tells Gibbs without naming Sasha to him. Tim wonders what people call Sasha—Alex or Alek? Or maybe Sasha’s known by his family name, whatever that might be? He doubts many people call him Sasha, not with the way the man had carefully offered the address to Tim—like a gift he didn’t know whether Tim might want or even recognize. Tim knows for certain that no one calls the man Alexander Nikolaievich. Nikolai Markov could never have recognized a Muscovite as his son.

 

Gibbs squints at Tim, and Tim knows Boss has already honed in on the fact that it’s the third man that’s important to whatever’s happening here.

 

Gibbs tightens his grip at the join of Tim’s neck, “I don’t want you out of my sight,” Boss’ jaw is locked, but his eyes are soft, frightened. “Do you understand?”

 

Tim pulls his hand up to Gibbs’ where it rests above his collarbone. Feeling his own brow furrowing, Tim slowly nods back his acquiescence, squeezing Boss’ hand as he does. It’s only then that the older man lets go.

 

Lips pursed, Tim needs to know, “Any word on the shooters?”

 

When Gibbs doesn’t answer, Ziva steps closer to Tim, just to Gibbs’ right, “Metro was already on-scene before we changed direction to come to you,” when Tim glances towards Ziva, her eyes are moving between him and Pyotor. “Before we pulled into GW’s parking lot, the dispatcher informed us that the two men had been arrested,” her words lilt upwards, garnering Tim’s full attention. “The men who fired upon you did not speak English,” she continues. “At Gibbs’ request, the arresting officer attempted to determine the language the suspects spoke. The officer told dispatch that it may have been Russian or an Eastern European language.” Ziva watches Tim closely, her eyes flicking toward Pyotor when she finishes, “The possibility of a turf war is being considered.”

 

Tim drops his head, has to step away from his team, has to breathe. _They found me_ , is all he can think. The two shooters at the warehouse had fired on him without warning, and though a part of Tim has always known he would be discovered sooner or later, has even waited all his life for it to happen, he’s somehow still shocked that it really has come to pass. His father’s enemies are far too powerful and too driven to be dissuaded by the long held presumption of Toli’s death. Somehow, even the near certainty Tim’s had these last several months that he’d already been discovered can’t soften the blow of knowing that this life he’s created as Tim McGee is really over.

 

“Hey,” Gibbs forces Tim back close to him, his hands first settling on either of Tim’s shoulders before Boss’ palms bank his face, pulling Tim’s chin up. “We don’t know anything yet.”

 

“No?” Tim’s whole face pinches, “You don’t think so?” He tries to glance back at Pyotor, tries to indicate his newest bodyguard as well as the red stains on his own shirt and skin from where his most recent protector bled for him, but Gibbs won’t let up an inch.

 

“No,” Boss’ lips barely move they’re so hard, so angry and fiercely determined. And then a whisper slivers past that nearly unmoving mouth, so quietly that Tim doesn’t think anybody else can hear. “It’s not time for this yet, Tim.” Boss’ bright blue glare bores into Tim, as if he can make Tim believe his words if he stares hard enough. “This definitely isn’t the place for it.”

 

Tim shuts his eyes in concession of at least that final fact, then takes a deep, measured breath, and nods. There’s another moment of holding that position before Gibbs taps his cheek and gradually lets him go. When Gibbs permits him to go beyond his grip, Ziva glides into the vacated space, as if pulled towards Tim by vacuum, but Boss stops her with a hard hand at her elbow before she’s able to get closer than an arm’s length from him.

 

“Gibbs!” his name is her only argument against Boss’ interruption of her attempt to simultaneously comfort and interrogate Tim. Boss’ glare is all it takes to make Ziva step back.

 

A heavy silence falls like a meteorite in the middle of a picnic lunch. When Tim looks up at his team, he finds all three of his teammates staring at him, Tony with swathes of anxiety painted across his face and Ziva with bare incredulity. Gibbs, by contrast, seems ready for war, lacking only camo grease and maybe the Nicaraguan countryside around him. He takes Tim’s wrist, and suddenly it seems obvious that Boss would _never_ let him go without a fight.

 

“We’ll talk about it tonight,” Boss allows after the silence stretches for longer than any of them are comfortable with. “We don’t talk about anything here,” he commands. “Understood?” he directs at Tony and Ziva—he never has to clarify to Tim about keeping his mouth shut.

 

Boss looks to Tony first who instantly nods his acquiescence. He turns to Ziva who has merely aimed her disbelief in Gibbs’ direction. Boss narrows his glare at her, making her purse her lips, but finally she nods and drops her chin with reluctant but complete concession. After giving her face another once over, Boss turns back to Tim.

 

“We should go,” Boss’ words come out low but are short of being a command.

 

“I can’t.” Tim shakes his head.

 

Boss rubs at his mouth, obscuring the motion of his lips as he says, “Hospitals are impossible to secure, Tim.”

                                     

Tim runs a hand through his hair before resting it and its twin on his hips. He glances over his shoulder to where Pyotor has taken up sentry at his back. “If I go now,” Tim levels his gaze at Boss, “then he’ll leave his brother here alone to come with me.” There’s no way a bodyguard from his father would ever let him alone while a potential threat was still lurking.

 

“He’s _not_ coming with us,” Gibbs nearly growls, jaw locked and eyes hard despite the fact that Pyotor’s brother risked his life for Tim’s today, but then all of a sudden, Gibbs jerks his neck far to the right, squinting in that direction before he twists his head left, leading with his eyes. Somehow, Tim knows what he’ll find, even before following Boss’ gaze.

 

_Sasha_ , the name returns to Tim’s mind the second he finds the man’s dark eyes. _My brother_ , his brain tries to wrap itself around the idea. _Moy brat,_ he tries the phrase in his mind again, in Russian this time, to try to see if the thought makes more sense in his first language.

 

Sasha glances to Pyotor before he speaks, acting as though his words are meant for his comrade when Toli knows they are meant for him, “ _Pakhan is coming_.”

 

Toli can’t even breathe. _Pakhan_ , he tries to repeat the title in his head, but the word morphs into _‘Papa_.’

 

From the corner of his eye, Tim just catches Pyotor lift his chin, watches the man swell with pride, his shoulders straightening with gratitude at the news that Nikolai Mikhailovich Markov will personally arrive to show his respects.

 

“’Pakhan is coming’?” Gibbs repeats the words in English, presumably for Tony’s benefit and to allow Tim to maintain the illusion that he doesn’t understand Russian, but when Tim looks over to check Tony’s reaction to Boss’ words, Tony’s eyes are solid on Tim—probing, wondering, but carefully not asking.

 

Sasha’s eyes twinkle when his gaze locks with Gibbs to answer, “ _My_ Boss.”

 

Tony and Ziva both stiffen at the familiarity implied by Sasha’s emphasis. Tony locks his jaw while Ziva shifts rapidly on her feet, hands fisting at her sides.

 

Sasha doesn’t so much as squint or twist his lips, yet somehow, Tim is certain that he notes the reactions of his partners.

 

Sasha nods to Gibbs but doesn’t offer his hand, “Alexander Sokolov,” Sasha’s Russian accent is subtler now; the tones that marked him as a Muscovite to Tim earlier are muted, almost nonexistent. Would Tim have been able to place Sasha’s origins before if he’d spoken like this in the car? He’s not certain. “Please,” Sasha’s eyes skim over Tim before roaming around the rest of the group, “call me Alek.”

 

Gibbs shifts on his feet, carefully and deliberately turning his entire body towards Sasha before he speaks to him. “Mr. Sokolov,” Gibbs acknowledges Sasha, not getting too close—as if Gibbs is still judging whether he could take him if he had to.

 

“That’s Pyotor,” Sasha nods his head in the direction of the dark-haired driver, “and Yurok is occupied down the hall.”

 

Gibbs loosens his shoulders and keeps his hands at his sides, the way he always does when they enter into a dicey situation and Boss wants to be certain he can easily access his piece. Boss doesn’t bother to introduce them. Tim thinks it’s probably apparent to Boss, if not the whole team, how unnecessary that would be.

 

Ziva lifts her chin and narrows her eyes at Sasha, “ _Pakhan_ is an interesting title.” From the measured tone of her voice, Tim’s certain Ziva knows exactly what it means. It’s not surprising considering Mossad’s history in dealing with the Russian mafia. Early on, Tim had been worried that Ziva or one of her handlers might recognize him from the age progression pictures his father had still been sending out as recently as four years earlier, or perhaps that she might see the traces of Papa that grew more apparent in Tim each year.

 

Lifting his chin and smirking, Sasha seems to deliberately provoke Ziva, “So is _Mossad_.”

 

Tim steps between Sasha and the rest of his team, knowing even as he does that he’s pissing Gibbs off. Tim knows he has no reason to trust Sasha, realizes his team has even less inclination to do so, but he wants so desperately to believe Sasha. _Moy brat_ , he locks eyes with the man that may well be his brother. Still, there’s only one person whose word can prove to Tim whether or not that’s actually true. “How long until Pakhan is here?” he needs to know.

 

Tim feels most of Sasha’s attention refocus back to him.

 

“A few short hours,” Sasha’s hand twitches as he speaks, as if he wants to place a brotherly palm of reassurance on Tim’s shoulder. “I believe he will be anxious to meet you,” the words are gentle, like another tentative gift from this man. “You may have saved Yurok’s life after all,” Sasha continues before Tim even realizes that outsiders might find his words noteworthy.

 

“Only after he saved mine,” Tim purses his lips. “After all of you saved my life,” Tim nods at first Sasha and then Pyotor. “Thank you.”

 

Pyotor doesn’t need a translator this time and nods back in almost half a bow towards Tim, while Sasha regains Tim’s attention with a jovial smack at Tim’s shoulder, grasping it before he grabs for Tim’s hand.

 

“So now, as you say, I am responsible for you?” Sasha says it like it’s a joke, but Tim can hear the somber undertone beneath his words. He knows his team probably can, too. He wonders if they can hear sincerity in Sasha’s words as Tim does.

 

“That’s not what we say, no,” Tony interjects, sidling up right beside Tim and Sasha. Tim’s certain he would have inserted himself between them if he could have worked his way into the small space.

 

“Ahh,” Sasha nods, still apparently jovial when he lets go of Tim’s shoulder and his hand, “My English is not always so good.” He smiles at Tony. “Please excuse Pyotor and me,” Sasha nods at Gibbs and the two men move to the other side of the waiting room. Pyotor stiffens but allows Sasha to maneuver him. Tim notices that the two Russians have a better view of the outside from their new vantage point, as well as a better position if someone who took exception to their presence were to enter.

 

“His English isn’t always so good,” Tony repeats, face close to Tim’s, saying everything without saying anything at all.

 

Ziva twists past Gibbs, even closer to Tim than Tony is, “Unlike your Russian?” she asks Tim what he imagines both she and Tony are thinking.

 

Tim stiffens, but he just manages to fight the urge to let his eyes run wild about the room trying to figure out if anybody overheard her. Instead of giving in to the impulse, Tim moves closer to Ziva. He kisses her cheek, letting her long hair mask the motion when he moves to speak softly in her ear. “Don’t feel like you have to stay.”

 

Tim feels the soft brush of Ziva’s lashes on his cheek as she blinks at his insult, and, perhaps, even more so, at the rarity of receiving an insult from Tim. When she pulls away from him, her brow is furrowed, incomprehension coloring her features beside newborn swathes of worry. She licks her lips and stays quiet for another moment. Her breath’s coming quicker now. Tim can almost see the second she accepts that he’s not teasing her in some _bizarre American way_ as she frequently accuses of Tony. Her eyes go soft. Her forehead furrows in fear.

 

“Gibbs,” she demands urgently, not looking away from Tim at all. “Perhaps it would be best if we all left.” She doesn’t so much as blink, “Right now.”

 

There’s a twitch in Tim’s neck. He knows she’s right. He knows they should all leave— _immediately._ He knows that he may be putting his team in danger by remaining here, but _Pakhan_ is coming!

 

“No,” Boss replies. “The man who was shot is a witness, and more than that, he saved Tim’s life,” Tim’s not sure if Gibbs actually believes that’s true or not, but he definitely doesn’t sell the fact to Tony or Ziva. “We wait to see how he is.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony nods his agreement. “Should probably wait a few hours anyway,” he adds, reiterating the time frame that Sasha gave them for when Pakhan would finally arrive, and Tim realizes Tony must have heard something in Tim’s voice that let him know how desperate Tim was to see Pakhan—to see his Papa—again. “Just to make sure he’s going to be okay.”

 

Tim closes his eyes, feeling completely exposed and afraid that his transparency might be obvious to everybody watching him and not just his team. When Tim opens his eyes again, Ziva’s still looking at him. There’s still confusion in her posture, but determination is slowly painting itself atop her features.

 

“I can make a phone call,” she offers Tim, her tone measured and forgiving. “Ask my old office to send a car to Waverly.”

 

His face pinching up, his jaw tightening, Tim just barely manages a stiff nod through his gratitude. He grabs Ziva’s hand before she can go outside. “When she asks them about pizza toppings, have them tell her _pickles and marshmallow cream_ ,” he shakes his head once when he gives Ziva his and Sarah’s code phrase, “Otherwise she won’t go with them.”

 

Ziva nearly smiles at his caution, squeezing his hand before moving away and outside where the loud thrum of the air conditioner near the ambulance bay should drown out most attempts to eavesdrop on Ziva’s conversation with her former Mossad contact at the Israeli embassy as she asks them to pick up Sarah from school. Any others who attempt to overhear her should be taken care of by the encryption package Mossad placed on her phone.

 

How the hell is he ever going to explain this to Sarah? Or to the McGees for that matter? Toli’s eyes move back to Sasha, wondering if he can trust this man like he wants to, wondering if Papa really has another son, wondering just how much trouble they’re all in if he and Sasha don’t have blood in common after all.

 

Sasha meets his gaze after a long moment, like he’d been waiting for Tim to look his fill. Unlike Toli, Sasha doesn’t share any facial structures with Papa. The blackness of his eyes are the most foreign feature of all, and yet there’s a knife’s edge within them that immediately reminds Toli of the way Papa looked at him when Papa pulled him and Andrei from the darkness of the Petersburg tunnels. Tim’s seen that edge to Gibbs’ gaze as well. It’s the one that tells Tim he will be protected no matter the cost.

 

Tim blinks down, gaze redirected to his shoes. _Papa_ , the thought reverberates in his head. Tim doesn’t know if he and his team (and _Sarah_ ) are safe, whether Sasha is his enemy or his blood or both, but he knows Papa can answer all his questions—that is, if he really is coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony spends most of the next three hours in complete and utter stillness. The lack of motion is unnerving to Tim, who’s long been accustomed to his partner’s jittery quirks. He doesn’t understand this calm that’s come over Tony at all.

 

Ziva is predictably pacing—their lioness allows herself to remain trapped in a cage of Gibbs’ making. That doesn’t stop her from eyeing Sasha and Pyotor on the other side of the Emergency Surgical Waiting Room where they’d all been directed after the ER doctors had transferred Yurok to surgery.

 

When they’d first come upstairs, Gibbs let Ziva join him in interviewing the men about the shooting. Tim’s pretty sure that it was part of a bid to calm Ziva—she’s never comfortable with anyone unless she thinks she knows or could at least guess their secrets. He’s equally as certain that Boss doesn’t want Ziva left alone with Tim, or at least, it’s obvious to Tim now that between this moment and when Boss and Ziva first walked away from Sasha without anything new to report two hours earlier, Boss has been keeping Ziva separated from Tim, trying to keep her holding her tongue while they’re still in public.

 

It isn’t until the fourth hour that an average-sized man with a shock of white hair casually ascends to the waiting room. The last time Toli had seen him, he’d had a dark cap of brown on his head.

 

“Ilya,” Sasha steals the name from Toli’s throat.

 

Ilya’s still-broad shoulders stiffen ever so slightly in response, Toli’s sure he never would have spotted the change in posture if he hadn’t once known this man so well. Wherever his father went, Ilya was always close by. The reverse was also generally true. Since Ilya is here…The next breath from Toli is far too ragged—surely Ilya can hear it—but his father’s bodyguard never turns in his direction.

 

“ _You have much to answer for_ ,” Ilya’s voice barely carries over to Toli on the other side of the waiting room. Ilya was never a man that had to raise his voice to anyone. His retaliation was always far too feared for anyone to act against him. Toli had seen his capacity for violence more than once, but he’d never feared Ilya himself. He’d known from a very young age that Ilya’s dedication to his father extended without prejudice to Toli as well.

 

Sasha casually tilts his chin a little farther right, “ _How can_ He _possibly be angry with the results?_ ” Toli hears Sasha’s slight emphasis when he refers to their father. Still, Sasha’s words are unconcerned, as if he’s not afraid of Ilya either.

 

Pyotor quietly moves away from the conversation, presumably to meet with Papa’s security detail somewhere down the hall to try to offer his Pakhan whatever increased safety he can.

 

“Gibbs,” Ziva shuffles on her feet in front of Tim, and when he looks down, he sees that she’s grabbed Boss’ arm.

 

“I see it,” Boss nods back to her right away, but it takes Tim a moment to understand what they’re talking about—men and women with earpieces and barely concealed guns—legal with a permit in this part of the hospital, though not the ER—hurriedly push their way through the hallway.

 

The women surprise Toli. Papa would never have permitted a woman on his security detail 25 years ago. He didn’t think they were strong enough to stomach the violence that came with serving a Pakhan, or even the aftermath thereof. Toli wonders why Papa would be alright with it now. He wonders how else Papa might have changed.

 

The moment Papa comes into view, though—his tan-colored wool coat whipping around his calves with the speed of his steps, his thinning grey hair barely streaked with the shadow of his former dark blond, the lines of his face deeper than the last time Toli looked up pictures of him at an out-of-state Internet café—he doesn’t seem any different to Toli at all.

 

Toli feels his lips longing to part on his father’s name, his feet aching to step forward. He’s tempted to, but Papa’s walking in this direction, and he has to see him. There’s no way Papa would look right at him and walk on by.

 

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t look at Toli at all. Instead, he walks up to Ilya. “Yurok Pavelovich?” he inquires.

 

“ _Still in surgery_ ,” Ilya immediately responds, “ _His brother, Pyotor, is supporting your detail in the hall.”_

 

Papa lifts his chin and nearly smiles. “ _Pavel’s sons are a pride to his memory to serve with the same dedication he did_.”

 

By itself, those words wouldn’t sting, but with the way Papa does not even glance his way, it feels like the worst kind of reproach coming from his mouth.

 

“ _Sasha,_ ” Papa redirects his words to the man who may be Toli’s brother. “ _I will have answers tomorrow.”_

 

Sasha blinks and drops his gaze. He keeps his mouth shut but nods in acquiescence.

 

Papa reaches out to lift Sasha’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He probes those black eyes for a long moment—almost too long for Sasha by the way his breath becomes uneven. “ _You should not have done this. This was far too noticeable—”_

 

“ _Yet you did not notice for months,”_ It is in that moment, the way Sasha interrupts Papa—his Pakhan—without fear of retribution, that Toli knows Sasha told him the truth about at least one thing: Papa and Sasha share blood. There’s no other way he would speak to his Pakhan thusly.

 

“ _It is noticeable now_ ,” Papa corrects. “ _And so now we have a problem_.”

 

Again, Sasha’s eyes falter, an acknowledgement of a truth in Papa’s words.

 

Papa lets go of Sasha’s chin and pats his shoulder briefly before turning around and walking away. He doesn’t glance Toli’s way once. Ilya does, though. Ilya looks at Toli and his team for a long moment before turning back to Sasha, his lip curling in disgust when he says, “ _Federalnitza,_ ” he doesn’t glance their way again when he follows Papa out the door.

 

“Gibbs!” Ziva urgently whispers when the second central leader in the Markov Family walks away from them without Gibbs even asking a single question. Tim’s not sure if she knows exactly who they are, but she definitely realizes the degree of their importance.

 

Boss calmly replies, “No,” and doesn’t give any further explanation. Instead, he walks back up to Sasha, ignoring Nikolai Markov as much as Papa ignored him. “I take it that was _your_ Boss, Mr. Sokolov?” Gibbs once again forgoes the given name Sasha invited him to use a few hours before.

 

Sasha straightens again quickly as Boss approaches him. He looks to Toli with a pursed mouth before looking back over to Boss, “Yes, Gibbs,” he confirms smoothly. “It was.”

 

“Didn’t seem very happy with you,” Boss points out.

 

Sasha rolls his shoulder with a smile, “Pakhan can be quick to anger at times,” he dismisses.

 

Boss shifts on his feet and moves closer in towards Sasha, “He was also surprised by the crowd here,” Boss angles his head back towards the team. Gibbs doesn’t single Tim out. He doesn’t have to.

 

Tim pinches his brow. Papa had seemed too angered to be surprised, but Gibbs’ ability to read people has always surpassed Tim’s. By contrast, Tim’s always been better at distinguishing larger patterns than most people. He can’t see any pattern right now though. He’s not sure he can see anything at all.

 

Sasha doesn’t answer, not even under a prolonged glare from Gibbs, not even when Boss presses farther into his space.

 

“DiNozzo,” Boss addresses Tony without ever looking away from Sasha. “You and McGee go home. I’ll clear it with Vance,” he concludes before Tim can think to protest.

 

“Home, Boss?” Tony questions.

 

It’s only when Boss says, “Home,” again so starkly that Tim realizes Boss is ordering them to his place.

 

“But Yurok—” Tim’s protest is short lived.

 

“We’ll stay to find out about Yurok.” _And to question Sasha more_ , Boss doesn’t need to say aloud.

 

“Agent McGee,” Sasha calls before Tim can even get his feet turned around, “You should have Turkish coffee more than once a week,” he grins. “It’s good for you.”

 

Tim blinks, remembering Sasha’s earlier words, creating a cover for him should he need to explain his ability to speak Russian, _Turkish coffee, cafe across the street from the Orthodox Church, morning jogging route_ , _6 am_.

 

“Thank you again for saving my life,” Tim wants to name Sasha aloud, hear the man’s name (his brother’s name?) cross his own lips, but Gibbs and his team know him as Alek Sokolov, and despite the fact that at least Boss and Ziva must know Sasha is a common nickname for Alexander, Tim hesitates to speak the diminutive aloud. More than this, Tim doesn’t want to speak a false name for a man who might share his blood.

 

Sasha smiles, just a little, like he’s saying hello even as Tony’s ushering Tim out the waiting room door.


	4. Chapter 4

Tim goes for the basement in Boss’ house right away. He knows the illusion of safety it offers is just that—an illusion—but he needs to be surrounded by the things that so clearly speak of Gibbs even when Boss is nowhere in sight.

 

“Talk to me, Probie,” Tony breaks his silence from the waiting room and the car by unknowingly echoing Boss’ words from just a few days ago in this very room. “Do you even realize how much you look like—”

 

Tim raises a finger to quiet Tony, but he doesn’t say a word himself, not yet. He can’t. Instead he goes for Boss’ workbench and the counter-surveillance equipment Tim brought here the day after his conversation with Gibbs. The modified EM-40 won’t be able block out as many signals as the MS-81 that he’d borrowed from NCIS to bring here four days ago, but it can determine if anyone is listening by almost any electromagnetic method.

 

Less than three seconds later, the EM-40 analysis is complete—it’s in the red.

 

_Oh, please, no._ Tim runs the test again, but once more, results are in the red. Probably a laser microphone if McGee had to guess. It’s not like Gibbs has rippled glass in the basement windows after all, and with a laser there’s no added risk of getting shot by an angry fed like there would be in placing a physical bug in Boss’ basement.

 

“What did it—” Tony’s seen McGee work the equipment often enough to comprehend the results immediately once Tim hands over the EM-40. “Oh,” Tony’s small exhalation sounds unsurprised. “You don’t have the Jedi Mind Trick one?” Tony asks, referring to the MS-81 model. _This isn’t the conversation you’re looking for_ , was a years-old running joke between.

 

Tim shakes his head. A detector with a minimal spectrum mask like an EM-40 was one thing, but there’s no way he could have justified signing out the multi-spectrum camo twice in one week, and he had to have it before. It was the only way he could be sure that no one was listening when he confided in Gibbs.

 

Tim seats himself in Gibbs’ stool. He brings up his hands to cover his eyes for a moment before running his fingers back and through his hair. He’d seen this coming. He’d _known_ he would find himself in this position. How did he not know what he was going to do next?

 

Tim’s eyes still shut, he hears Tony pull up the construction horse beside him, feels the reverberation across the concrete floor as Tony moves in close and sits next to him.

 

“You know,” Tony leads, “We didn’t finish our reports.” Tony’s voice is soft but insistent. “We should go back to the Yard and write them up.”

 

Tim’s already shaking his head before his partner finishes, because it may not be another crime family with eyes and ears on Toli right now. It could be the FBI. It could actually even be the _Bratva_ watching him. Sasha might have followed him to Gibbs’ from the hospital. He might even be outside right now. Toli still has hope that it could be the _Brotherhood_ watching over him, but chances are good, especially with the way Papa would not even look at him, that he’s not even considered a part of the _Brotherhood_ anymore after all. If he’s not considered one of them anymore, then it’s possible that if the _Bratva_ is watching him, their purpose may not be protection.

 

Abruptly, Toli’s blinded to everything around him, and all he can see is Papa’s stiff form as he took into the waiting area, just as if he owned it and everything in it. Yet Papa didn’t bother to survey the room like Toli has always remembered him doing, a simple precaution that Papa never would have neglected before. Maybe Papa knew Toli was there. Maybe he avoided Toli’s gaze intentionally because he didn’t want to claim him as his own anymore. Maybe Papa tells people that he has no son.

 

He feels Tony’s hand at the base of his neck, trying to gentle him as Gibbs would. It makes Tim blink, makes him sniff involuntarily. He clears his throat, waiting for the blush to heat his cheeks. It doesn’t come.

 

It’s only now, in hindsight, that Tim realizes he never believed that he’d been in danger when he’d come to Gibbs before. He’d thought whoever was watching him was doing so under the loving direction of his father. What if it was never his father, though? What if it was the Muscovites or the Trincallos? Of course, if it had been a different crime syndicate, then why wouldn’t they have moved on Toli yet after so many months of watching him? It’s more likely that the FBI could have found a connection between Tim McGee and Nikolai Markov. Tim looks more and more like his father every year—Tony certainly noticed that fact, although Tony’s always been exceptional with faces. Still, Tim realizes a simple facial recognition search could have given him away to the FBI. Furthermore, Tim’s always tried to keep his potentially recoverable DNA traces to a minimum, even more so after he first suspected he was being followed, but it’s possible that the FBI obtained a sample from him and ran a match. He doubts his father’s DNA is in the system, but he had an uncle, cousins in Petersburg. It’s possible one of them was arrested or turned evidence to the FBI. He didn’t really know them well enough to be able to rule out the possibility.

 

The worst thing to imagine is that it _is_ his father’s people watching him, but not as a part of the _Brotherhood_ , instead as _predatil_. But could he really be considered a traitor after so many years as a federal agent and not saying anything of what he knows? There is no statute of limitations on murder after all, and he knows the Cayman and Swiss accounts his father kept for him in trust are still there, which means that other accounts of his father’s that were established through the same means could still be in place and deriving dividends that are likely not being taxed, and that’s to say nothing of what he could have told the FBI about the _Bratva’s_ patterns and preferences of business had he chosen to spit on his blood and rat them out.

 

If the FBI is watching him, the only way his life is in danger is if the Bureau brought his existence to the attention of the other crime syndicates. On the other hand, his job might be in jeopardy, not because he’s technically done anything illegal—nothing since he’s turned 18 in any case—but because simply being the son of a member of the _Bratva_ , let alone a _Pakhan,_ would mean everyone in law enforcement would consider him to be his father’s mole, despite his lack of contact with anyone in the _Bratva_ for better than 20 years.

 

If, instead, his father has eyes on him…Toli’s not even sure what that means anymore. He can’t imagine that his father would actually hurt him or someone he cared about, but until tonight, he hadn’t been in the same room with his father in over 22 years. Could Papa consider him an enemy?

 

“Tim,” Tony’s voice is as soft as the pressure of his hand, still insistent at the base of Toli’s neck.

 

Tim leans his head down, not trying to get away from Tony’s hand exactly, just not sure how to deal with its constancy, “You’re so quiet,” he accuses his normally verbose partner.

 

Tony chuffs, but takes the hint, pulling his hand back into his lap. “What am I going to say, Probie-wan?”

 

It’s that second _Star Wars_ reference of the last ten minutes that makes Tim look up to his partner. Directly after he meets Tony’s eyes, Tony’s gaze slides over to the EM-40, still blinking red in warning before he looks right back at Tim.

 

Tim nods, acknowledging the correctness of Tony’s response, but not being able to stand spending time with Tony in _silence_ of all things. “Talk to me about the movies,” Tim begs, not meaning to say anything at all. “Not your favorites,” Tim adds, gaze dropping down because anybody who’s spent more than five minutes trapped with Tony at a stakeout knows that DiNozzo prefers 70’s Al Pacino movies— _mob movies_ —to practically anything else in the universe. “Just something.”

 

Tim feels his partner’s eyes on him for another long moment, knowing Tony is studying him. Tim wonders how many of his secrets Tony might see. A part of Tim wishes Tony could see all of his secrets. That way, Tim never has to betray anyone by speaking them aloud.

 

“Can you believe they didn’t want Bruce Willis as John McClain in the Die Hard franchise?” Tony complains after a moment. “And I mean, okay, I could see if they’d wanted Tom Selleck or Harrison Ford for the part, but at one point they actually courted _Richard Gere_ for the film,” Tony’s voice lilts incredulously. “Can you seriously picture _Richard Gere_ blowing up the first few floors of Nakatomi Plaza, let alone facing off with Alan Rickman?”

 

Tim furrows his brow, and replies honestly, “I can’t.”

 

“In fact,” Tony continues, almost smiling as he gets more involved with his explanation, “Alan Rickman and Richard Gere have _never_ actually appeared in a movie together.”

 

“Well, Alan Rickman is considerably more awesome than Richard Gere,” Tim allows, letting Tony’s argument fill his thoughts as completely as he can.

 

“That’s exactly what I said to Abby once,” Tony says mournfully.

 

“Ooh,” Tim winces in sympathy, imagining the confrontation.

 

Tony nods, “Yeah. Who knew she’d be a closet Richard Gere fan?”

 

“Is that weird to you, too?” Tim whispers furtively like Abby might hear. Of course, if it’s the FBI outside then maybe, one day…Tim shakes his head, “She makes fun of me for liking _Sleepless in Seattle_ and yet she has _Pretty Woman_ on Blueray, DVD, _and_ VHS!”

 

“It’s a terrible movie!” Tony whispers back, like he knows the risks, too. “He can’t even drive a stick shift!” Tony lifts both palms in despair. “What kind of hero is that, I ask you? Magnum probably could have driven his mother home from the hospital in a standard on the day he was born!”

 

Tim turns to Tony and grins, “Yeah?” he asks.

 

“Well,” Tony concedes, “Maybe not the same day, but definitely that week!”

 

“Oh, definitely,” Tim speedily nods his agreement, just barely able to keep his grin from morphing into a chuckle.

 

For a moment, Tony eyes Tim suspiciously at his ready assent, but then he blinks and grins at Tim’s still smiling face. Tim wishes suddenly that this moment could stretch forward through time and simply always be there when he needs it, like an old hammer that never rots and is always ready to be picked up and put to use at any given moment.

 

“So of course, Richard Gere as John McClain was ridiculous. They did also look at Sly Stallone, which would have been workable, although…” Tony leads and Tim immediately picks up the thought.

 

“Would have been a totally different movie.”

 

“Exactly!” Tony points to Tim, acknowledging his wisdom. “Are you really going to believe that Sylvester Stallone can’t take out a small group of terrorists after he’s taken on the entire Viet Cong, or, well, practically?”

 

“No,” Tim deadpans, “it’s completely unrealistic.”

 

“Now, interestingly enough,” as usual in these situations, Tony ignores his sarcasm, “Richard Gere and Sylvester Stallone—who has also never been in a movie with Alan Rickman—both have the same Alan Rickman number.”

 

Tim squints, “Alan Rickman number?”

 

“It’s like a Kevin Bacon number, you know from that game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon: John Travolta has a Kevin Bacon number of two because he was in Phenomenon with Kyra Sedgewick, who was in the Woodsman with—”

 

“Kevin Bacon,” Tim interrupts to finish the thought. “Okay, got it,” Tim nods. “So what’s Richard Gere and Sylvester Stallone’s Alan Rickman number?”

 

“Two,” Tony holds up two fingers on his right hand.

 

“Wait, really? _Sylvester Stallone_ is only two degrees of separation from _Alan Rickman_ ,” immediately Tim has to interject within his own argument, “not that I’m saying that Sly Stallone is not as cool as Alan Rickman, especially when you consider the Rocky movies, but you have to admit, it’s a different kind of cool.”

 

Tony nods and waves a hand at him, accepting the validity of the argument. “Actually, most of the Hollywood A-listers only have a max of two degrees of separation between them.”

 

“Really,” Tim pulls his chin in towards his chest, “that’s kind of a freakishly small community when you think about it.”

 

Tony nods, seemingly agreeable until he winces, “But then could you really imagine somebody who looked like Fornell jumping off the roof of Nakotomi Plaza with nothing but a firehose wrapped around his waist between him and death?”

 

Tim grins and, for just a second, he almost hopes it’s the FBI listening in. He lifts an eyebrow and turns full on to Tony, “Yippi Ki-yay, Diane?”

 

Tony shuffles and shifts right before he’s mirroring Tim exactly since he can only lift his right brow while Tim can only do his left.

 

They’re still giggling at turns when they hear an engine die in front of the house and the heavy footsteps of someone entering upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim shoves the EM-40 in his pocket the moment he hears footfall above him and Tony. The two sets of steps they hear are terse and careful but moving together rather than sequentially—whoever it is above them isn’t trying to clear the house.

 

Tony recognizes the pattern of their teammates’ footfall before he does, nodding and motioning Tim upstairs, even as Tony pushes Tim behind him to make sure he walks up first. The basement door opens before they can get past the lower landing. Tony has his hand on his gun, but other than that, Tim can’t see anything because his partner’s moved completely in front of him. Tony relaxes immediately, and when he steps to the side, Tim can see first Gibbs and then Ziva walking down to greet them.

 

The team retreats back to the work bench together, in silence. Tim pulls the EM-40 back out and places it on the center work table where everyone can see it and the blinking red light of doom. A moment later, Ziva withdraws another small machine from a cloth bag. She rests it beside the EM-40, turns it on and adjusts the EM frequencies. The EM-40 goes green right away.

 

“You didn’t get that from the Yard,” Tim points to the multi-spectrum mask she brought in—a model 131a by the labelling, which means it’s military grade.

 

“A loan from a friend,” she acknowledges.

 

Tim hesitates. He knows Ziva believes Mossad will generally act in her best interests, and by extension, the best interests of the NCIS team, but this problem is both a little bigger and a little smaller than anything they’ve shared with Mossad before, and Tim’s uncertain whether they might use him against his father if they knew who he was.

 

Ziva lays a hand over Tim’s, demanding his attention. “It was Hadar,” she clarifies, eyes clear and uninsulted. “He has promised me privacy, and I believe him. The only reason Hadar has ever worked against me is when my father has ordered him to do so, but Abba cannot speak against that which he does not know.”

 

Tim swallows hard, but he has to believe in someone, and of course he believes in Ziva. “My sister?” he asks.

 

“At the Israeli Embassy,” Ziva clears her throat. “She is unhappy according to Hadar, but she is safe, and she has promised me that she will remain there tonight.”

 

“You spoke with her, yourself?” Tim has to be certain. It’s not as though he could have placed a call to Sarah himself from his unsecured cellphone.

 

“Yes," her voice is as clipped as her response.

 

Tim nods, feels himself nervously licking his lips, and then he not-so-subtly pushes Ziva over to check out the MS-131a himself—running his finger along the seams, changing the frequencies to make sure there’s a proper corresponding change in the EM-40’s response. He can’t find anything wrong with the device Ziva’s brought in, but now that he knows someone’s listening or maybe just _trying_ to listen at this point, it’s so much harder to speak in this moment than it was four days ago in this room when he reached out to Gibbs alone.

 

Ziva pushes back into Tim’s space, pulls his hands from the counter-surveillance device and squeezes them too tightly, “We have been patient,” her whole face pinches around her mouth, “Sarah is safe, and I would _die_ for you, but I need to know why.” She pulls on his arm, beckoning him into her space. He follows her.

 

“The blond man at the hospital,” she demands, and the floodgates open: “Did he really help you at all at the crime scene? Did he threaten you? What does the shooting have to do with the Russian mafia? Why did the driver of the car follow your orders? And…”she hesitates, “Their Pakhan, the way he looks,” she leads but doesn’t finish.

 

“Hey, what she said,” Tony tilts his head in Ziva’s direction, adding a bit of brevity just where Tim needs him to.

 

Tim grabs Ziva back, answering the most important part of her diatribe right away, “I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want any of you to die for me.” Tim blinks and looks to Tony, who grasps Tim’s shoulder, his grip as tight as Ziva’s. “I don’t think that’s what this situation is, in any case.”

 

Tim takes a deep breath and begins again where he can, “The man at the hospital,” _Sasha_ , his mind provides but instead Tim says, “ _Alek,_ he said to call him—is Avtorityet. He’s basically a crew master,” technically, Tim’s words are a guess, but he knows he’s right, “but he’s probably under the direct authority of _Pakhan_.”

 

“And the Pakhan is kind of like the Godfather, right?” Tony guesses, getting the accents in all the wrong places.

 

Tim swallows, the harsh motion tearing at his throat. “Yes,” he nods. “ _Pakhan_ …he, yes.” Tim can’t breathe, can’t think of anything but the way Papa kept his eyes up and away from him the whole time. Behind him, Gibbs reaches for Tim’s shoulder, rests his hand there, and squeezes. Tim purses his lips, blinks but manages to keep his eyes open, and even though he’s infinitely glad and grateful that Gibbs has his six, a part of him can’t help but wish it were Papa at his back right now.

 

“You look like him,” Tony points out again, as if one of his teammates might _possibly_ have missed it. “You look a lot like him,” Tony pushes the issue that Ziva couldn’t quite press, perhaps because she empathized too deeply with Tim’s situation or maybe just because she already knew.

 

McGee locks his jaw, lets himself lean back into Gibbs’ steadfast grip before he nods in acknowledgement, “I look more like my father every year,” Toli somehow manages to spit out the words.

 

The silence that follows is overly long. McGee doesn’t look at his partners, not ready to know what they’re thinking.

 

“Nikolai Markov’s wife and son, Anatoli, went missing over 20 years ago. The boy was ten years old,” Ziva recites part of what Hadar must have told her or emailed to her over her secure line in the last couple hours since Tim had last seen her. “His father refused to have him declared dead, and was actively searching for him until four years ago.”

 

Toli leans forward onto the table, wondering if it will keep him up. “He stopped looking four years ago?” he asks, watching the furrow of Ziva’s brow deepen.

 

Ziva shifts closer. “Three years before that, he halted the official search,” she clarifies, her tone sure, her posture open to him, “and his pursuit for his son changed. He hired new private investigators. He completely shut out authorities, whom he’d been nominally complying with in regards to the search for his son up to that point.”

 

Toli shakes his head, still holding onto the table even as he leans once more into Gibbs’ steadfast grip. His father had moved on years ago, then. Toli has no right to be disappointed. He has _utterly_ no claim to this devastation taking root in his gut. He’d wanted Papa to find him, he realizes now. He’d had some bizarre idea in his head that maybe he could have both his life as an agent and a right to his past, a right to be his father’s son again.

 

“McGee,” Ziva demands his attention, forces him to keep her gaze, “Your first book, with your photo on the back cover, was published that year. The resemblance between you and your father is startling.” She grabs his hand as if desperate to pull him into her own understanding. “He stopped looking for you because he found you.”

 

He doesn’t get what she means at first. Tim turns to Boss, grabs hold of Boss’ hand to keep it on his shoulder, to keep him grounded. “He’s known where I am for the past seven years?” Toli only comprehends once he speaks the words aloud. He shakes his head. “Why?” _Why wouldn’t he come for me?_ Toli thinks, even as he knows how ludicrous the idea is. It was Toli’s place to return to his father, not Papa’s place to come after him.

 

“What did Hadar say about Alek Sokolov?” Tony asks, shifting on his feet in Tim’s direction, while Tim’s still trying to put the new information in context.

 

Ziva straightens and breathes heavily, “He is former FSB.”

 

“Wait!” Tony squints, “You mean he was a part of the _modern KGB_?” Tony jabs at Tim’s middle with his elbow, as if to try to make Tim physically feel the humor Tony’s trying to distract him with. “I was wrong. This _is_ a Bond movie!”

 

Tim drops his head, but tries to smile at Tony’s joke anyway. Appreciating the attempt at levity mostly because of its inappropriateness.

 

“Hey,” Boss tightens the squeeze on McGee’s shoulder, demanding his attention, “What did Alek Sokolov say to you?”

 

 _That he’s my brother_ , Tim swallows the words, not willing to speak aloud—even to his team—possible truths that might be better kept in the _Bratva_. Until he can find out how much of the _Brotherhood_ realizes Sasha’s possible parentage, it’s impossible for Toli to judge whether that knowledge is more dangerous to his team or to Papa and Sasha. Nonetheless, Tim has no doubt that the information isn’t safe to know. “He wants to meet me tomorrow at 6 am in the café across from the Orthodox Cathedral on 17 th Street.”

 

“Well, _that’s_ a bad idea,” Tony interjects in seconds.

 

Ziva nods her quick agreement. “You cannot trust that man! FSB is filled with nothing but paramilitary spies!”

 

Tony and Tim squint at each other and then turn to Ziva as one.

 

She blinks, “Mossad is completely different!” she argues at once before they can point out her double standard. “Israel fights for its very existence!” she crosses her arms over her chest. “What does Russia fight for?”

 

Tim wisely shifts the subject, “Alek is from Moscow?” he asks, disliking the way the name feels false in his mouth, despite the fact that it really is another of Sasha’s nicknames.

 

“As far as Mossad can tell, yes,” Ziva squints at him. “He told you this?”

 

McGee shakes his head. “My father is from Petersburg.”

 

“St. Petersburg?” Tony questions, confirming Tim’s use of the abbreviation.

 

Tim nods. “The accent between the two cities is very different,” he confides, “So are the loyalties.” Toli clears his throat and looks to the rest of his team. “It is very unusual,” he understates, “that a Moscow-born man would work for a man from Petersburg.”

 

“I have been to both places,” Ziva begins carefully, puzzled for the reasoning of the conflict, but not for its existence. “The people had different traditions to be sure, but I found them more similar than different.”

 

“I’ve only been to Petersburg once, as a child,” Tim begins, not certain how else to explain it than by example. “I was six years old, so the city was still called Leningrad then. That was the first time the Muscovites tried to have me killed.” McGee shakes his head, “It’s not the everyday people, but the ones who try to seize power that are in conflict with one each other. When the revolutions started happening, right before the USSR fell,” Tim shakes his head, remembering the depth of his mother’s fright, the way her fear had scared him, “it only got worse. Loyalties became more polarized.”

 

“Your mother took you and left your father in 1990?” Ziva poses it as a question, but of course she already knows.

 

Tim nods, “In the middle of the Autumn of Nations.”

 

“She was scared for your life,” Ziva realizes gently, “she wanted you away from the warzone.”

 

“Yes…” McGee could have left it at that, but the inflection of the word is all wrong coming out of his mouth.

 

“But…?” Tony leads, rolling one open palm over the other.

 

“But,” Tim admits, “That wasn’t all. You have to understand,” McGee tries to equivocate before he speaks his betrayal. “My father, my father was always unbelievably good and kind to me. When I was a child, I never questioned how much he loved me. He was,” Tim swallows hard, “He was a very good father…” And again, Tim trails off with too high an inflection.

 

There is silence among them for a long second. It’s Ziva who breaks it. “He was a good father, but not a good man,” Ziva finishes what Toli can’t bring himself to say aloud, even now.

 

Tim blinks and feels his eyes drop, but he doesn’t really see anything, “Maybe,” he admits, feeling his disloyalty in every cell of his body.

 

It’s not until Ziva grabs his hand, forcing his eyes back to hers that he realizes that she may be the one person who can understand his conflicted loyalties better than anyone. He squeezes back and offers a small smile. She smiles back, much wider than he can manage, and kisses him on the cheek.

 

“What does _govnosos_ mean?” she demands, gleam in her eye as she distracts him from his guilt.

 

“I have no idea,” Tim shakes his head, lying easily.

 

Boss barks in laughter across from them.


	6. Chapter 6

Not a single one of his teammates approve, but they each understand, so when 0530 comes around the next morning, all four of them are in the car on the way towards the café across the street from St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church.

 

It’s a small building. They circle around the block twice. The disturbed-pond appearance of the rippled glass in every window of the café makes it apparent to Tim that they’re in the right place. The location must be a place where his father, or maybe just Sasha, frequently conducts business.

 

They park a couple blocks away and walk in two-by-two formation on the other side of the street from the restaurant. Tim’s most frequently paired with Tony when they walk or work in twos—maybe because of their comparable physical size or perhaps due to their complementary strengths. Then again, maybe it’s just because Tony’s accustomed to having his Probie’s six after so long of teaching Tim the ropes. Today, though, it’s Ziva at Tim’s side. Boss decreed the arrangement with a flick of his chin when the four of them left the car. Boss didn’t say why, but he didn’t have to, either. If anything goes wrong inside the café, Ziva can get Tim off American soil and away from complications from the _Bratva_ or the FBI or both inside of fifteen minutes by taking him to the Israeli embassy.

 

As they walk towards the café, they don’t have a single cell phone among them, but they each have their service weapons, not to mention whatever personal arsenal Tim’s teammates each deigned to wear. Tim’s only got his knife and a single spare clip on him. He can see the bulge at Boss’s ankle where he’s got his old thirty-eight, though. He knows Tony’s wearing his double holster with a 9 mil under each arm. He can’t tell what Ziva’s carrying beyond the sig at her hip, but Ziva doesn’t need a weapon to be dangerous anyway.

 

The oddity is, Tim knows that the four of them are unlikely to be stripped of their weapons because the people in the _Bratva_ understand that the real danger that law enforcement poses to the _Bratva_ is not in its weaponry, but in its legalities. That’s why none of them, not even Tim, would ever be permitted to take an electronic device of any kind into a conversation with _Pakhan_.

 

He tried to describe some of the critical mechanics of the _Bratva’s_ mindset to his team last night. He knows they understand what he told them on an intellectual level, but Tim also realizes that the _Brotherhood’s_ way of life is too foreign for him to try to explain to his team without some sort of reference for them to help them comprehend. He doesn’t know if he could ever really explain the sorts of politics that he grew up with and the way he’s had to fight how that thinking has colored his world.

 

Whether or not his team gets _why_ Tim needs to guide them through this meeting, he hopes he emphasized enough just how critical it is that they not interfere with his dialogue with Sasha and whoever else may show up today. Tim bites his lip, wondering if Papa might be one of the people behind that rippled glass.

 

He’s not at all certain whether this meeting is actually Sasha’s own initiative or a way for the _Brotherhood_ as a whole to try to determine Toli’s potential threat level to the organization. There’s even a small chance that MCRT will find the FBI behind the door of that café, although Tim seriously doubts that the Muscovite he met yesterday could be a mole for the feds.

 

As the team approaches the café, a figure sits on the black-painted metal patio furniture reading a newspaper as a steaming hot cup of coffee sits on the table beside him. He hadn’t been there five minutes ago when the team had driven by. The man keeps the paper low, making his face visible.

 

“It’s Pyotor,” Boss declares once his eagle eyes are close enough to distinguish the man’s features.

 

Pyotor waits until the team gets closer, waits even until they are practically standing in front of him before he rises to greet them. “Dobroye utro.”

 

“Good morning to you,” Tim nods back, certain Pyotor is familiar with at least that much English and not willing to speak Russian in public without knowing who might be listening. “Yurok?” he inquires.

 

Pyotor smiles so widely he doesn’t need to say, “Ochen Horoshow. Spasiba.” _Very good. Thank you._ Pyotor sweeps one thick arm towards the door, inviting them inside without another word.

 

Tim nods, returning the smile, but it’s Ziva who returns their thanks, “Spasiba.” She smiles at Pyotor as well, exaggerating the sway of her hips. Pyotor’s grin widens, his focus narrowing to Ziva alone as the team walks past.

 

Tim glances up at Boss to note Gibbs uses Pyotor’s distraction to surreptitiously get a closer look at what the Russian is carrying—Pyotor’s got the same Glock on his hip as he did yesterday. _No wonder he’s a bad shot_ , Tim muses about what Sasha told him the day before. _No control when you’re learning on a Glock_. As a driver, though, Pyotor would probably be more concerned with the rapid fire the Glock allows in order to clear people from his path rather than the accuracy a semi-automatic might better yield.

 

The café is well lit as they step inside, and another man walks into view from the kitchen within seconds of their entrance. “ _Dyadya_!” Toli doesn’t mean to speak the appellation aloud—he’s grown now, and he hasn’t seen his ‘Uncle’ in over 20 years, regardless. Not only that, but there’s just a single door between anything Toli says and a possible laser microphone from the FBI. It’s just that he’s almost overwhelmed to recognize Alyosha right away, even with the passage of time written across his face in ink. Alyosha had been Papa’s second in the _Bratva_ for longer than Toli’s been alive. Alyosha’s presence at this meeting almost indisputably means that this conference was sanctioned by Pakhan himself. Additionally, it exponentially increases the possibility that Papa may be here as well. Toli takes a moment to glance around before his eyes go back to _Dyadya_.

 

Alyosha grins, his still-black eyebrows raise beneath his greying hair, “Malcheska!” he speaks to the boy Toli once was, but then when they walk closely enough to touch, he claps his hand on Toli’s back instead of gathering Toli to him as he often had when Toli was a child. By reflex, Toli copies the motion. It’s odd for him to realize that his arm on Alyosha’s shoulder is angled downward: Toli’s taller than _Dyadya_ now. A moment later, their hands still clasped onto one another’s shoulders, the two men embrace. It is a gesture of equality as much as affection between them. His uncle is acknowledging Toli as a man of the _Bratva_. Moreover, he is welcoming Toli as such.

 

Alyosha smiles at Toli as they part. He keeps a heavy hand on Toli’s shoulder and looks up at him when he says, “ _Nikolai Mikhailovich refused to retire to the hotel last night_ ,” _Dyadya_ drops his chin, confidingly. “ _He demanded to have everything Sasha found out from his surveillance of you_ ,” Alyosha watches Toli closely as he speaks, trying to determine what Toli knows about the situation, judging his cleverness, and, perhaps, Toli’s potential uses to the _Bratva._

 

This is the Alyosha Toli remembers watching as a boy—always calculating, always pushing or cajoling or simply taking information. It’s one of the traits that made Alyosha such a good councilor to Papa, good enough that Toli doubts Papa ever considered anyone else to be his _Sovietnik_.

 

Toli smiles back at Alyosha, feeling Papa’s blood coursing through his veins when he returns, “ _I am certain that anyone would have difficulty reporting anything interesting of my visible life in these last several months of following me_ ,” Toli’s not certain how many months, but ‘several’ should be vague enough to satisfy the timeline. “ _Even a former agent of FSB_ ,” he continues, offering the information he has on Sasha because there is no conceivable way that Alyosha does not already know of Sasha’s past. Moreover, Alyosha should know that Toli is not without his own resources.

 

“ _Of course_ ,” Toli continues, narrowing his eyes, realizing mere seconds before he speaks that, “ _Sasha knew that electronic surveillance could garner too much attention and potential complications_ ,” as a part of the Russian state security agency, Sasha would have realized that Tim’s major weakness would have been physical surveillance, a fact that he effectively exploited for who knows how long before Tim caught on. Tim would have discovered any electronic reconnaissance exponentially more quickly than a physical shadow—just as he did last night. “ _Unlike others,_ _Sasha only watched me, he did not try to listen_.” The words are at dig at Alyosha, though the smirk Toli offers afterward makes his phrasing too friendly for the _Sovietnik_ to take exception. It was Alyosha’s men observing him in Gibbs’ basement last night, Tim now has no doubt. He’s also fairly certain that the surveillance was as much to protect Toli as it was to ensure Pakhan’s safety.

 

Alyosha chuffs, more approvingly than anything else. His voice is almost inaudibly low when he speaks again, “ _Like his father before him, Sasha_ _excels at keeping many secrets_ ,” again Alyosha studies Toli’s features, watching for a reaction. “ _But not, I think, all secrets_ ,” Alyosha adds, squeezing Tim’s shoulder a touch too hard as he does.

 

Toli holds Alyosha’s stare, hearing his warning as clearly as the new day breaks outside the shuttered windows of the café. It is not until this moment, with Alyosha pressing against family secrets that Toli’s only just learned that Toli realizes how very precious the information Sasha gave him last night truly is. Sasha’s paternity is not simply a secret within the _Bratva_ , it is a secret _from_ the _Bratva_. Toli wonders how many of the _Brotherhood_ know who Sasha is to their Pakhan. With the way Alyosha’s thumb digs just beneath his shoulder blade, Toli would bet Ilya and Alyosha are the only ones that know. Toli wonders how many, nonetheless, suspect the relationship, how many would hate the Muscovite blood in Sasha’s veins more than they respect the way it mixes with the blood of their Pakhan.

 

“ _Any secret of Pakhan’s,_ ” Toli speaks slowly, ensuring that Alyosha cannot misunderstand him, “ _is not mine to speak_ ,” Tim shakes his head and doesn’t look at his team, he doesn’t have to, “ _not_ _to anyone_.”

 

Alyosha’s grin becomes more broad. After a moment of _Dyadya_ beaming at him so, Toli realizes he’s grinning because Toli has inadvertently pledged allegiance, not only to his Papa, but to his father’s position as Pakhan.

 

“Mmm,” Alyosha hums approvingly, once more squeezing Toli’s shoulder, though lightly this time, before he drops his hand to his side. “It is good to see Sasha is not the only man here who is his father’s son,” Alyosha’s switch to English is deliberate. As obscure as his actions are, it is the first time Alyosha even nominally acknowledges Tim’s team.

 

Toli narrows his eyes at Alyosha. As _Sovietnik_ , Alyosha has been his father’s most trusted advisor for as long as Toli can remember. Papa almost always spoke with Alyosha prior to making major decisions for the _Bratva_. Alyosha’s apparent but contradictorily unspoken, disapproval at the presence of Tim’s team likely means that Papa realized they would try to accompany Toli to see Papa today. Further, Papa must have already approved their presence because Alyosha certainly does not agree with MCRT being here, but he’s also permitting their entry.

 

Papa once told Toli that your highest potential could only be achieved when you could trust someone to tell you when you were wrong. For the last ten years or so, recalling his father’s words has made Tim think of Tony.

 

Tim’s eye goes to Tony now. His friend’s shoulders are slightly hunched, as if Tony is preparing to duck and take cover at a moment’s warning. Tim wouldn’t have even noticed the minute change in posture except that he’s watched Tony’s shoulders tense up in this same way for dozens—if not hundreds—of take downs over the years.

 

Tim purses his lips, wondering if he’s made a mistake by asking or maybe letting his team come with him today. Alyosha’s response to him merely confirms to Toli that whatever Papa’s reasoning for not acknowledging him yesterday, the _Bratva_ does not see him as _predatil_. As such, by allowing Tim’s team into the building with him, the old rules of the _Bratva_ demand that the team be considered Toli’s guests, and as his guests, they cannot be touched unless they first show hostility to the _Bratva_.

 

At the moment, though, there’s no way for Tim to convey to Tony the _Bratva’s_ etiquette on hospitality. He cannot let Tony know they are safe, and at this point, despite Alyosha’s unspoken disapproval of the presence of the rest of MCRT, neither can Tim offer his team a way out of this room. Any suggestion that Toli might make about his team retreating to the car or staying here while the _Bratva_ takes him farther into this safe house would be a declaration of no confidence in his team. If Toli shows a lack of confidence in his team, then the _Bratva_ will assume that his fellow MCRT members do not have his trust. The _Bratva_ will imagine that Tim’s team is a risk to Toli and to Pakhan and possibly to the organization. No, the only way through this is wherever the _Bratva_ leads.

 

Of course, on the other side of that equation, Tim’s equally as certain that his team would refuse to leave this building without him. They might even put their hands on Tim to try to force him to come with them. Toli nearly shudders at the thought. The _Bratva_ would never permit anyone to put their hands on their _Pakhan’s_ son _._ Alyosha may be the only member of the _Bratva_ that Tim’s team can see, but this is a _Bratva_ safe house, and Alyosha would never travel alone regardless. Just because Toli cannot see the eyes on them, doesn’t mean he doesn’t realize they are there.

 

Tim’s eyes go back to Alyosha’s, “And where is my father?” Tim asks because Papa _has_ to be here. Papa’s the only person whom Alyosha might disagree with yet still obey. Surely Papa _must_ be in the building. Since the _Bratva_ does not consider him a traitor, then Papa can’t either. Papa really _is_ the heart of the _Brotherhood_ after all. If Papa sees that Toli did not betray the _Bratva_ , then surely Alyosha is right and he still is his father’s son.

 

“He waits for you,” Alyosha tilts his head towards the kitchen. Immediately, the swinging door opens and a man too young for Toli to recognize waits until Toli catches his eye, then glances to an open stairwell with a narrow entry.

 

Toli breathes in roughly, feeling a heavy and welcome warmth spread through his chest. He nearly takes a step forward, but then Tim looks back at Alyosha. He hesitates but then decides it best to ask, “The men who shot at me yesterday in the warehouse district?” If Alyosha or Papa were considering consequences to those men, Alyosha wouldn’t tell him in front of the rest of MCRT, regardless, but Tim can at least know how severe the situation is, whether his life is in immediate danger and from whom.

 

Alyosha narrows his eyes, “A misunderstanding,” he permits. His voice is hard, and Toli knows he disagrees with the decree he was given when Alyosha continues, “Your father is willing to accept their apologies on your behalf, unless you are offended by them.”

 

 _A misunderstanding,_ Tim breathes, swallows hard in his relief. He wonders if Alyosha sees his misgivings, imagines that his uncle likely does. Tim shakes his head, feeling the gratitude for his father’s mercy. “I am not offended.”

 

Alyosha nods, as though he expected as much.

 

“It’s good to see you, Uncle,” Tim nods to the older man.

 

“It’s good you are here,” Alyosha nods back and then hesitates for a bare moment, “Anatoli Nikolaievich.”

 

Toli licks his lips, but then he smiles. It seems that his own identity is not nearly as closely kept a secret as that of his brother. Still, Alyosha’s hesitation means something. Toli wastes no more time. He jerks his chin to his team and leads them all past the swinging doors of the kitchen and down the stairs.

 

Sasha waits for them past the bottom of the narrow stairwell. He smiles broadly at Toli, slapping him on the back as Alyosha did, then leaving his arm there on Tim’s shoulders as if in afterthought. The Muscovian accent that was so apparent yesterday is non-existent in his English this morning, “It’s good to see you again, _Tolyan_.” The diminutive slips from Sasha’s lips as if he and Toli were familiar and not just barely introduced.

 

Toli blinks, trying not to enjoy receiving the familiar sort of address that he’d heard between the gangsters he’d known growing up. He can’t hold back his grin. He looks to Sasha and wonders whether his newly discovered brother— _moy brata!_ —is as sincere as he appears to be in pursuing this connection between them, or if, instead, his apparent offer of brotherhood is the start of some elaborate ploy. His mind cannot help but to remember Ari and the way he’d manipulated Ziva. Of course, Tim never doubted that, even as much as Ari used Ziva, he loved her and tried to protect her, too.

 

“It’s good to be here, _Sashko_ ,” Toli answers, nearly in kind, if a little less gangster and a little more polite.

 

Sasha merely grins more broadly, squeezes Tim’s shoulders once more and chuckles. Deliberately, Sasha twists and looks back at Tim’s team. Tim uses Sasha’s distraction to glance more thoroughly about the room, noting how completely empty it is—not a window or a scrap of furniture to be had—nothing but the now closed door leading up to the staircase they just shuffled down and the open door fifteen more feet in front of them and the small room beyond it.

 

Sasha doesn’t speak again immediately, just shifts back around to face Tim more completely once more.

 

“They’re my team,” Tim explains to Sasha’s raised eyebrow even as he can practically feel his team fanning out behind him, scanning for false walls or holes in the ceiling.

 

Sasha leans in against him a little more, and Tim realizes that the other man is about Tony’s height. “They are feds,” Sasha mock whispers.

 

“So am I,” McGee points out.

 

Sasha only smiles more broadly at that, switching to Russian when he declares, “ _You are Bratva._ ”

 

Tim wants to duck his head, let himself feel the simple but pure pleasure flowering within him at this inclusion—to be told he is still considered part of this _Brotherhood_ he was born to. Instead, Tim halts their progress, knowing Sasha and his team will stop as he does. Tim shakes his head, “But I’m not _Bratva_ ,” his mouth can’t help but to pronounce the word properly. “I’m a federal agent with responsibilities. They,” Tim points towards his team with an extended arm, “they are federal agents and Pakhan should know that none of us take that lightly,” Tim swallows hard. “I am not _Bratva_ ,” he reconfirms. “And they definitely aren’t either.”

 

“ _If you were not Bratva_ ,” Sasha begins anew in Russian, Moscovian accent thick and hard against Toli’s ears, “ _Then Pakhan would be in prison even now_ ,” he steps closer and closer to Toli, getting directly into his face, and Tim feels like he’s breathing in danger itself by sharing his breath with Sasha, but Tim doesn’t back away. “ _Alyosha would be in prison_ ,” Sasha continues, nearly spitting now, “ _The Muscovites would still be fighting the Trincallos and the street gangs for dominance of Chicago, and more than half of the current Bratva would be dead, in jail, or destitute_.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim just barely notes how stiffly his team stands beside them—Tony with his fingers on his gun, Ziva with her knife in her hand, and Boss with his feet set apart and his eyes narrowed to Sasha alone.

 

“ _You are Bratva, Tolyan_ ,” Sasha stays in his face, forcing his opinion onto Tim, practically trying to stuff it down Tim’s throat. “ _It is in your blood as much as it’s in mine, this is true, but even more than this, you are Bratva because of what you could have done and did not_.”

 

By the time Sasha leans away, quietly furious, Tim’s breath is coming almost as fast as his thoughts. It’s true what Sasha says. If he’d gone to the FBI 23 years ago, ten years ago, even just a few years ago—even yesterday—Tim could have broken the _Bratva_. He could still break it. He could absolutely desiccate it, and he could either stay anonymous through the whole thing or he could make himself a hero in law enforcement. He wouldn’t have even had to reveal his heritage either way in order to make it happen. Tim had never even considered breaking the _Bratva_ as a possibility. Despite the fact that he didn’t want to do the things a man in the _Bratva_ would have to do, he’d never actually wanted to hurt it. Tim’s not certain how the contradiction can possibly exist within him. How can he love the law and justice, yet so staunchly support and protect the _Bratva_?

 

Sasha’s breathing just as harsh as his own, Tim notes when he looks back up at the other man. “He wants to see you,” Sasha doesn’t have to name Papa for Tim to know who he’s talking about. “ _He_ doesn’t care whether you consider yourself _Bratva_ or not.”

 

 _But you do_ , Tim thinks, his own green eyes keeping with the blackness of Sasha’s. Tim nods after a moment, wondering even more about Sasha and feeling almost desperate to hear Papa confirm Sasha’s claim that they really are brothers in blood. Tim _wants_ Sasha to be his brother. It looks like maybe Sasha wants that, too.

 

Squinting at him, Sasha backs up three steps, back towards the open door and the small room Tim glimpsed before. Tim’s brow furrows as he enters the room. He knows it’s not the same place where he’d witnessed Papa killing Vasha 23 years before, but it looks much the same—a soundproofed room with a table and six chairs but no other furniture. There’s one other door on the other side of the small room. Tim’s eyes go for it right away, knowing Papa must be right behind it.

 

Once the rest of Tim’s team is in the small room as well, Sasha closes the doors behind them. A red light blinks briefly while the overhead lights dim. When the lights come back on, Sasha tells the team. “It is best to turn over any recording devices or cell phones now. Counter surveillance is constant, and the signals will not simply be blocked,” he warns, “they will be found, and you will be discovered, and then you will no longer be considered relevant to the conversation. Do you understand?” Sasha demands of McGee’s team.

 

“We left our cell phones elsewhere,” Tim continues to speak for his team, grateful that they trust him well enough to let the _Bratva’s_ focus and even Sasha’s still angry words to remain on Tim alone. “We didn’t bring anything else,” Toli finishes, his eyes locking with Sasha’s.

 

Sasha doesn’t blink, merely keeps Toli’s gaze for a long moment. Toli wonders who Sasha’s mother is, whether she’s still alive, and if his own mother had ever known about her. If Sasha and he had grown up together in Papa’s home, knowing they were brothers, Toli doesn’t believe he and Mama ever would have left. For a long aching moment, his eyes not moving from Sasha’s, Toli wonders how different his life might have been. If he’d known he was a second son and not considered himself the firstborn, he thinks he could he have remained in his home. The pressure to take their father’s position one day would have been Sasha’s, not Toli’s. While law enforcement would have been out of the question for him had he stayed, Toli can’t imagine a life where he didn’t love the law. Boss would cringe at the thought and Papa likely would, too, but Tim could picture himself as a lawyer if he’d grown up as Anatoli Markov. He wonders if he would have been permitted to be a prosecuting attorney, but he probably would have had to settle for being legal representation for the defense. Tim bites his lip as he considers. Actually, Tim doubts he would have been able to have been a part of the criminal legal system at all. He doesn’t think anyone facing prosecution would want a son of the Russian mafia to stand beside them and taint their reputation in court. In fact, with his inherited ties to organized crime, he probably would have been lucky to get a job in family court. Most likely, Toli would have ended up chasing ambulances or the technical equivalent thereof. It never would have been satisfying for Tim, but it would have been the closest to the life he wanted that Toli Markov might conceivably achieve.

 

Tim blinks downward for just a moment. When he looks back up, Sasha tilts his head in Tim’s direction, but he doesn’t speak another word. Instead, he crosses the small room and knocks four times on the far door, offering an enormous show of trust by taking Toli’s word for it and forgoing pat downs for not just Toli himself, but his three teammates as well.

 

Toli’s not ready for it when it happens, but the second that the heavy metal door opens, Papa pushes his way into the room by himself, not even Ilya accompanies him. Papa halts when he’s two feet in front of Toli.

 

“ _Tolik_ ,” Toli can’t remember a word ever coming from Papa’s mouth so brokenly before.

 

“ _Nechevo neznayou, Pakhan_ ,” Toli lowers his chin and immediately swears— _I know nothing_ —the promise he gives to his Pakhan is old, predating Toli’s birth by decades, but it’s the best way he can think of to be certain that Papa understands that Toli has _never_ and would never speak a word against him.

 

Papa shakes his head, his whole face seeming to pinch around his nose. “ _Tebya znayou_ ,” Papa counters right away— _I know you_. “ _I know my boy_ ,” Papa says again in their first tongue. “ _We will not speak of it again_ ,” he commands sharply.

 

Toli cannot raise his head to meet his father’s eyes, but he can still feel it when Papa slowly moves towards him.

 

Heavy hands—hands Toli’s seen destroy so much—gently cup his face. Papa’s thumbs draw wide half circles along his cheeks until once more, Toli opens his eyes.

 

“ _I’m sorry, Papa_ ,” he can barely keep his Pakhan’s gaze.

 

Papa just shakes his head. His mouth just barely remains open as he looks at Toli. His lips quiver as if he wishes to speak but can’t find the words. Eventually, Papa squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward to press a kiss to Toli’s forehead. Toli immediately drops his chin to welcome the gesture, to let Papa reach him without stretching. It startles him to realize it, but Toli’s taller than his father now. Papa pulls Toli against him a long moment later.

 

The sensation is so difficult to trust—his father’s arms around him, holding him steady and still for the first time in nearly 23 years. Papa doesn’t smell of cigar smoke any longer. There’s a pepperminty flavor on his breath, along with that woodsy sort of cologne that Tim could never find at any perfumer shop, despite hunting for that particular scent for nearly twenty years. Tim concluded some time ago that Papa had it specially made from some indescribably rare ingredients. There’s also a faint floral odor underneath his father’s scent and Tim realizes he has no idea if Papa’s remarried. Maybe he even has other children.

 

 _Sasha_ , Tim thinks. He wonders. He _needs_ to know, but, in this moment, instead of opening his mouth to ask, he pulls his arms out from between Papa and him and wraps them around Papa’s back.

 

Papa pulls him in more closely, squeezes him more tightly. “ _Tolik_ ,” his voice comes out just as brokenly as when he spoke Tim’s name a moment ago.

 

Long moments pass before Papa pulls away to look at him again. Once more, he kisses Toli’s forehead, a wide smile spanning his face. Then Papa looks past Tim, beyond his shoulder. Tim turns, Papa’s hand still broad and steady on his neck.

 

 _Sasha_ , Tim meets his eye just as Sasha seems to shift his gaze from Papa to Toli.

 

Papa holds out his hand to Sasha, beckoning him closer while maintaining his right palm on Toli’s neck. Sasha obeys immediately. The instant he’s close enough, Papa places his left hand on Sasha’s neck, a mirror to how he still holds Toli.

 

“Sasha has told you already,” Papa acknowledges in barely accented English, “But you must hear the truth from me.”

 

Toli blinks at Papa’s deliberate use of English. Papa never spoke to him in English before unless Toli was not the only person he was addressing. His use of the language now indicates that Papa is allowing Tim to include his team in family matters.

 

“I have two sons, Tolik,” Papa’s eyes stay level as he continues to explain. “Sasha is your brother,” Papa confirms even as Toli swallows hard at the weighted knowledge Papa gives to his team. “He is Muscovite,” Papa readjusts his broad hand to squeeze high on Toli’s shoulder, near his collarbone. “The situation with the Muscovites is different now than what it was, which is why Sasha can openly be in my house.”

 

Toli feels a wave of bitterness for that cultural rivalry that nearly killed him so long ago, “Only as your lieutenant, though,” Toli recognizes the truth before his father can point out the potential danger to both Papa and to Sasha if their true relationship were known. “There are too many long memories in the _Bratva_ , too many people who lost someone in the war with the Muscovites. There’s no way you could acknowledge him as your son.” Tim knows his team are listening. He only hopes that, in their silence, they really understand how dangerous this information is.

 

Sasha chuckles unhappily beside him and Papa, “Agent McGee,” Sasha startles Toli with his title, “Pakhan can’t claim _you_ as his son, either.”

 

Tim blinks at Sasha, feeling his breath coming quicker as he recognizes the truth in his brother’s words. As a federal agent, any association with an individual with organized crime would make him suspect, but as the _son_ of a Pakhan, Tim may as well just turn in his badge. However, while much of the _Bratva_ would accept a simple declaration from their Pakhan acknowledging a federal agent as his son, a large sect of Papa’s business associates would see Toli as _predatil_ for as long as Toli remained in law enforcement. Papa’s position as Pakhan would be challenged, and whether Papa held or lost his rightful place as head of the consortium, the battle would be vicious and bloody, and Tim would once more be the first target for his father’s enemies.

 

Tim thinks of the last several months and the dozen or so people rotating on his tail, the way Sasha and his team saved him yesterday. Toli shuts his eyes and thinks of his own face, plastered across countless covers of Deep Six and looking so very much like a mirror to Papa’s own features. Suddenly, everything makes a horrible sort of sense—the fact that Papa’s known where he was for seven years, yet hadn’t made the first move towards him; Papa’s anger and contrasting resignation regarding Sasha’s actions; the way Papa wouldn’t even glance in his direction in the hospital yesterday. Tim purses his lips. He drops his gaze and shifts his chin, but doesn’t quite look at his team, who are unnaturally silent behind him—all of them still honoring Tim with the sheer magnitude of their trust in him.

 

Tim swallows hard and redirects his gaze to look at Papa dead on. “How much time do I have?”

 

“No,” Gibbs’ voice is low and harsh behind Tim.

 

Tim drops his eyes and very slightly angles his head in Gibbs’ direction, not far enough to look at the man, but enough for Toli to keep his gaze from meeting his father’s for a moment. “Boss, it’s okay. I’m not going to have to run. It’s just…” Toli knows that once he’s under the protection of Pakhan, he’ll be untouchable, but in order to be under his father’s protection—

 

“What?” Tony breaks into Tim’s thoughts, “You won’t have to run, you’ll just have to quit?” His partner’s inflection is high, full of angry and ready resentment for this family he never knew Tim had. Tony moves up on Tim’s side, though Tim wouldn’t have thought there’d even be room for Tony to insinuate himself between him and Sasha. “You love being a federal agent, Tim,” Tony grabs at his arm and creates a greater space between Tim and his newly discovered brother. “You haven’t even seen this man in how many years, but he still gets to dictate your life?”

 

Sasha bristles at Tony’s disrespect of Pakhan. Tim just has time to worry about how the former FSB agent is going to react when he sees Papa tighten his grip at Sasha’s neck, quieting him before he can combat Tony’s words. Papa looks to Toli then. He glances to Tony for a fraction of a second, but his gaze once again lands on his younger son, permitting Toli to handle Tony himself.

 

Tim’s palm moves up to cup Tony’s shoulder, and he guides his partner away from Sasha, tries to give Tony a little more space from the situation. Papa’s hand drops from his neck to allow him better movement before he’s two steps away.

 

“Tony,” Tim leans into his partner, doing his best to track Ziva and Boss with his peripheral vision even as he says, “I know this situation seems incredible in the truest sense of that word, but the truth is, this has always been my life, and the fact that I was able to become a federal agent at all,” Tim stalls, not wanting to cause further insult to Papa, but not knowing how to communicate his love for his job and the utter impossibility of him keeping it if a war broke out amongst the ranks of the _Bratva_ , without also slighting Papa as the reason for _why_ such was incompatible.

 

“I love my job,” the words seem so mild coming from Tim’s mouth. “I love being a part of MCRT,” Tim shakes his head, “but even if I could keep my association with the _Bratva_ a secret from law enforcement, after yesterday, there’s no way Papa would be able to maintain the illusion among his associates that I was still lost to him.”

 

Tony shakes his head and pushes back into Tim’s space, “That is not your problem!” Tony’s jaw remains locked—as hard as Tim’s ever seen it. “This is your _life_ we’re talking about!” His partner insists, gripping both of Tim’s biceps as he does. “You can’t give up your whole life for a man you haven’t seen in over twenty years!”

 

Tim blinks in the small space between them, wishing that were true, wishing there were some other option available to him that would allow him to remain at NCIS and still regain his place at his father’s side. Tim knows Ziva understands, can feel it in her continued silence from three feet away. He thinks Boss probably gets it, too, the fact that sometimes you’re caught up in a situation and all your good choices no longer belong to you, and maybe they never did. Tony, though—Tony’s always been one of the most optimistic people Tim knows, and Tim’s not sure how to describe the politics of the _Bratva_ to him. Even the hard blue line of law enforcement would have more give than the unforgiving _Bratva_.

 

“Tony, I have to,” he begins, feeling the smallness of his voice. “There’s no other way the _Bratva_ will accept this situation.”

 

“Toli is correct,” Papa begins before anyone else can speak again. “The peace is too young, and while I am Pakhan, there is no possibility for avoiding a war if it became known that I had two sons whom the _Bratva_ would consider enemies—a federal agent and a Muscovite.”

 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, pinching his whole face. Geez, Tony doesn’t even know it yet, but Tim’s not just going to have to leave NCIS, he’s going to have to leave his friends in law enforcement behind, too. There’d be no other way to keep them safe. Then, of course, all the relationships he’s built over the years in the various agencies would likely turn on him anyway—everyone would have to consider him suspect. No one would believe that he hadn’t been triggered by his father to do the bidding of the _Bratva_ while he was in law enforcement. Gibbs’ reputation, maybe even Ziva’s could stand a mild association with him in the future, but Tony’s? No, Tony is too much of a federal officer—right through to the bone—and having to deal with the stain of a teammate, let alone a close friend, as an enemy to law enforcement would be a major hit on Tony’s reputation. Tony would act like he wouldn’t care, but it would eat at him, affect how he did his job and perhaps even whether he could do his job—maybe even his safety. Tim purses his lips, eyes still pinched as he imagines leaving his whole life behind. He’ll have to push the people who don’t understand away from him, so they won’t become targets to either the _Bratva_ or the suspicions of law enforcement. He’ll probably have to push at Tony the most to make sure his best friend doesn’t try to continue their friendship and thus put himself at risk. Tim swallows hard, not sure how he can make himself do it, but knowing that he will. He has to.

 

“That,” Papa continues, “is why the change must be mine.”

 

Blinking his lids open in bewilderment, Toli’s gaze shoots to Papa, noticing when he does that Sasha’s black eyes appear just as stunned as his.

 

“Pakhan?” Sasha’s voice comes out roughly, as if fighting its way over hot coals.

 

Papa shifts his attention to Sasha, meets his gaze, “You are my son, and I wish to acknowledge this fact to the world.” Looking back to Toli, Papa asserts, “You are both my sons, and I have been making arrangements for this moment for many years.”

 

Toli can barely breathe, remembers the arguments between his parents, the way his mother had begged him, pleaded over and over for Papa to please step away from the _Bratva_ and establish a reputable business or trade. He recalls the way Mama had hollered through her fears and her anger for years until it transformed into grief, and even then, Toli had known Papa would never step down from the power and privilege of what it meant to rise so high and control so much.

 

“ _You cannot!_ ” Sasha takes a step back, so not to yell his Muscovite-painted speech in Papa’s face. “ _You’ll put yourself and the entire Bratva at risk, and for what? To have something that is already yours?_ ” Sasha vehemently shakes his head. He raises an arm to Tim, just glances at him as if to confirm before he claims, “ _Toli understands who we are!_ ” Shifting on his feet, Sasha pushes back into Papa’s space, “ _I understand!_ ” He pulls his hands up to chest level, and they immediately fist for his anger. “ _You have told his closest compatriots! It is a gift from you! Who else needs to know what we are to you?_ ”

 

A weighted silence follows Sasha’s words. Ziva’s not quite as fluent in Russian as Boss, but Tim’s certain she follows Sasha’s angry words. Tim’s even certain that Tony, who knows not a bit of Russian at all, got the gist of the situation, the reason for Sasha’s anger because his partner’s grip eases up just above his elbows.

 

Papa moves forward and grabs Sasha’s hands, still fisted at his gut, “Everyone, _Sashinka_ ,” his level voice pushes back. “Everyone needs to know who you and Toli are to me.”

 

Sasha holds Papa’s gaze for a long moment, but then his lips purse, and he ducks his head, seemingly trying to keep his features from crumpling any further. Tim takes a step towards Sasha and Papa, and Tony allows him to move from his grip.

 

Tim tentatively places a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. A second later, he feels Papa’s fingers wrap around the back of his neck.

 

“ _Is this not a better brotherhood?_ ” Papa whispers in the small space between the three men.

 

Tim feels his own mouth pinch shut. He leans his head forward, thinks of Alyosha upstairs, and suddenly the _Sovietnik’s_ unease and concern makes perfect sense. Papa would never trust anyone else but Alyosha to take over the _Bratva_ , after all. He wonders how long it will take for Alyosha to transition into the full leadership role. Even over twenty years ago, Alyosha knew all the ends and outs of Papa’s business, every secret Papa ever had. The fact that Alyosha will be taking over as Papa steps away means that the two men will rarely see each other in the future—they can’t—not if Papa intends to acknowledge his two sons.

 

“How much time do we have?” Tim asks again, though this time his words carry an entirely different meaning than before.

 

Sasha glances up at him, blinking in disbelief. Papa merely smiles and tells them both, “We have all the time in the world.”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: *govnosos means shit-fucker


End file.
